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THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


BOSTON: 

TICKNOR  AND   FIELDS. 
1865. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1865,  by 

TlCKNOR    AND     FIELDS, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of 
Massachusetts. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


Annex 

r 

OS* 


TO 

LAUNT    THOMPSON, 

SCULPTOR. 


2041562 


CONTENTS. 


UDITH. 

PROLOGUE      . 
I.  JUDITH  IN  THE  TOWER 
II.  THE  CAMP  OF  ASSUR 


III.  THE  FLIGHT 


Page 
•  13 

15 
.  29 

43 


LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK  61 

GARNAUT  HALL 72 

THE  LADY  OF  CASTELNOIRE     ....  83 

AMONTILLADO .  88 

CASTLES 91 

ROBIN  BADFELLOW 93 

THE  LILY  OF  LOCH-!NE 95 

DECEMBER,  1863 96 

CLOTH  OF  GOLD. 

CLOTH  OF  GOLD tor 

THE  CRESCENT  AND  THE  CROSS       .       .       .       103 

THE  SHEIK'S  WELCOME 104 

THE  UNFORGIVEN *°5 


viii  CONTENTS. 

DRESSING  THE  BRIDE 107 

Two  SONGS  FROM  THE  PERSIAN     .       .       .  108 

TlGER-LlLIES IIO 

THE  SULTANA 112 

IT  WAS  A  KNIGHT  OF  ARAGON  ....  113 

WHEN  THE  SULTAN  GOES  TO  ISPAHAN.       .  115 

HASCHEESH 118 

A  PRELUDE 120 

A  TURKISH  LEGEND 122 

INTERLUDES. 

THE  FADED  VIOLET 125 

GHOSTS '.  127 

DEAD 128 

THE  LUNCH 129 

BEFORE  THE  RAIN 130 

AFTER  THE  RAIN 131 

WEDDED 132 

THE  BLUEBELLS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND      .        .  133 

NORA  MCCARTY 135 

THE  MOORLAND 136 

NAMELESS  PAIN 138 

THE  GIRLS 139 

MURDER  DONE 140 

GLAMOURIE 142 

MAY i43 


CONTENTS.  ix 

PALABRAS  CARINOSAS 144 

LITTLE  MAUD 145 

AT  THE  MORGUE 146 

SONGS 147 

HESPERIDES 150 

THE  POET 151 

THE  ROBIN 152 

THE  BALLAD  OF  BABIE  BELL,  AND  OTHER 

POEMS. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  BABIE  BELL     .       .       .       .155 

PISCATAQUA  RIVER   .......       t  160 

PYTHAGORAS 162 

A  BALLAD  OF  NANTUCKET     ....  167 

THE  TRAGEDY 169 

HAUNTED 173 

PAMPINEA 175 

A  GREAT  MAN'S  DEATH 180 

KATHIE  MORRIS 181 

LAMIA 188 

INVOCATION  TO  SLEEP 190 

SEADRIFT 192 

THE  QUEEN'S  RIDE 195 

BARBARA 198 

THE  SET  OF  TURQUOISE 205 


x  CONTENTS. 

SONNETS. 

EUTERPE 233 

AT  BAY  RIDGE,  L.  1 234 

PURSUIT  AND  POSSESSION        ....  235 

THE  AMULET 236 

EGYPT 237 

MIRACLES 238 

FREDERICKSBURG 239 

ACCOMPLICES 240 


JUDITH. 
? 


PROLOGUE. 

TO    LILIAN. 

/^*OD  fashioned  Man  from  out  the   common 

^-^         earth, 

But  not  from  earth  the  Woman  :  so  does  she, 

Even  when  fallen,  ever  bear  with  her 

Some  sign  of  Heaven,  some  mystic  starry  light. 

Most  gentle  is  she  in  all  gentle  deeds, 

In  all  sweet  offices  of  fireside-life ; 

A  touch  to  cool  the  fevered  brow  of  pain, 

A  voice  to  ease  the  heavy  heart  of  care : 

Most  holy  is  she,  since  child  Jesus  drew 

Life  from  the  sacred  circles  of  her  breast. 

Nor  this  alone,  for,  grappling  with  her  fate 

In  ancient  days,  she  buckled  armor  on, 

And  graspt  the  sword  and  sprung  the  battle-bolt, 

And  wore  the  Martyr's  scarlet  shroud  of  flame. 

Of  fair  heroic  women  not  the  least 


i4  PROLOGUE. 

Was  she  of  Bethulia,  whose  lithe  hand 
Forgot  its  native  tenderness,  and  smote 
The  Assyrian  despot  on  his  conquered  throne, 
Whereby  she  blest  the  land  forevermore 
And  won  the  love  of  Israel  and  the  Lord. 
To  this  uncrowned  queen  of  elder  time 
Belong  the  art  and  passion  of  my  song ; 
And  unto  thee  the  song  itself,  since  thou 
Hast  taught  me  reverence  for  all  womankind. 


JUDITH. 


JUDITH    IN    THE    TOWEE, 


0  W  Holoferncs  with  his  barbarous  hordes, 
The  scum  of  twenty  servile  sovereignties, 
Orost  the  Euphrates,  laying  waste  the 

land 

To  Esdraelon,  and,  falling  on  the  town 
Of  Bethulia,  stormed  it  night  and  day 
Incessant,  till  within  the  leaguered  walls 
The  boldest  captains  faltered  ;  for  at  length 
The  wells  gave  out,  and  then  the  barley  failed, 
And  Famine,  like  a  murderer  masked  and  cloaked, 
Stole  in  among  the  garrison.     The  air 
"Was  filled  with  lamentation,  women's  moans 


1 6  JUDITH. 

And  cries  of  children :  and  at  night  there  came 
A  fever,  parching  as  a  fierce  simoom. 
Yet  Holofernes  could  not  batter  down 
The  brazen  gates,  nor  make  a  single  breach 
"With  beam  or  catapult  in  those  tough  walls  : 
And  white  with  rage  among  the  tents  he  strode, 
Among  the  squalid  Tartar  tents  he  strode 
And  curst  the  gods  that  gave  him  not  his  will, 
And  curst  his  captains,  curst  himself,  and  all ; 
Then,  seeing  in  what  strait  the  city  was, 
Withdrew  his  men  hard  by  the  fated  town 
Amid  the  hills,  and  with  a  grim-set  smile 
Waited,  aloof,  until  the  place  should  fall. 
All  day  the  house-tops  lay  in  sweltering  heat  ; 
All  night  the  watch-fires  flared  upon  the  towers ; 
And  day  and  night  with  Israelitish  spears 
The  bastions  bristled. 

In  a  tall  square  Tower, 
Full-fronting  on  the  vile  Assyrian  camp, 
Sat  Judith,  pallid  as  the  cloudy  moon 
That  hung  half-faded  in  the  dreary  sky ; 
And  ever  and  anon  she  turned  her  eyes 
To  where,  between  two  vapor-haunted  hills, 


JUDITH.  17 

The  dreadful  army  like  a  caldron  -seethed. 
She  heard,  far  off,  the  camels'  gurgling  groan, 
The  clank  of  arms,  the  stir  and  buzz  of  camps  ; 
Beheld  the  camp-fires,  flaming  fiends  of  night 
That  leapt,  and  with  red  hands  clutched  at  the 

dark; 

And  now  and  then,  as  some  mailed  warrior  stalked 
Athwart  the  fires,  she  saw  his  armor  gleam. 
Beneath  her  stretched  the  temples  and  the  tombs, 
The  city  sickening  of  its  own  thick  breath, 
And  over  all  the  sleepless  Pleiades. 

A  star-like  face,  with  floating  clouds  of  hair  — 
Merari's  daughter,  dead  Manasses'  wife, 
Who  (since  the  barley-harvest  when  he  died), 
By  holy  charities,  and  prayers,  and  fasts, 
Walked  with  the  angels  in  her  widow's  weeds, 
And  kept  her  pure  in  honor  of  the  dead. 
But  dearer  to  her  bosom  than  the  dead 
Was  Israel,  its  Prophets  and  its  God : 
And  that  dread  midnight,  in  the  Tower  alone, 
Believing  He  would  hear  her  from  afar, 
She  lifted  up  the  voices  of  her  soul 
Above  the  wrangling  voices  of  the  world  : 


1 8  JUDITH. 

'  O  are  we  not  Thy  children  who  of  old 
Trod  the  Chaldean  idols  in  the  dust, 
And  in  Mesopotamia  worshipped  Thee  ? 

'  Didst  Thou  not  lead  us  unto  Canaan 
For  love  of  us,  because  we  spurned  the  gods  ? 
Didst  Thou  not  bless  us  that  we  worshipped  Thee  ? 

<  And  when  a  famine  covered  all  the  land, 
And  drove  us  unto  Egypt,  where  the  King 
Did  persecute  Thy  chosen  to  the  death,  — 

'Didst  Thou  not  smite  the  swart  Egyptians 

then, 

And  guide  us  through  the  bowels  of  the  deep 
That  swallowed  up  their  horsemen  and  their  King  ? 

'  For  saw  we  not,  as  in  a  wondrous  dream, 
The  up-tost  javelins,  the  plunging  steeds, 
The  chariots  sinking  in  the  wild  Red  Sea  1 

'  O  Lord,  Thou  hast  been  with  us  in  our  woe, 
And  from  Thy  bosom  Thou  hast  cast  us  forth, 
And  to  Thy  bosom  taken  us  again : 


JUDITH.  19 

'For  we  have  built  our  temples  in  the  hills 
By  Sinai,  and  on  Jordan's  flowery  banks, 
And  in  Jerusalem  we  worship  Thee. 

'  0  Lord,  look  down  and  help  us.     Stretch  Thy 

hand 

And  free  Thy  people.     Make  us  pure  in  faith, 
And  draw  us  nearer,  nearer  unto  Thee/ 

As  when  a  harp-string  trembles  at  a  touch, 
And  music  runs  through  all  its  quivering  length, " 
And  does  not  die,  but  seems  to  float  away, 
A  silvery  mist  uprising  from  the  string : 
So  Judith's  prayer  rose  tremulous  in  the  night, 
And  floated  upward  unto  other  spheres ; 
And  Judith  loosed  the  hair  about  her  brows, 
And  bent  her  head,  and  wept  for  Israel. 

Now  while  she  wept,  bowed  like  a  lotus-flower 
That  watches  its  own  shadow  in  the  Nile, 
A  stillness  seemed  to  fall  upon  the  land, 
As  if  from  out  the  calyx  of  a  cloud, 
That  blossomed  suddenly  'twixt  the  earth  and 
moon, 


20  JUDITH. 

It  fell,  —  and  presently  there  came  a  sound 

Of  many  pinions  rustling  in  the  dark, 

And  voices  mingling,  far  and  near,  and  strange 

As  sea-sounds  on  some  melancholy  coast 

"When  first  the  equinox  unchains  the  Storm. 

Whereat  she  started,  and  with  one  quick  hand 

Brushed  back  the  plenteous  tresses  from  a  cheek 

That  whitened  like  a  lily,  and  so  stood, 

Nor  breathed,  nor  moved,  but  listened  with  her 

soul; 

And  at  her  side,  invisible,  there  leaned 
An  Angel  mantled  in  his  folded  wings,  — 
To  her  invisible,  but  other  eyes 
Beheld  the  saintly  countenance ;  for,  lo  ! 
Great  clouds  of  spirits  swoopt  about  the  Tower 
And  drifted  in  the  eddies  of  the  wind. 
The  Angel  stoopt,  and  from  his  radiant  brow, 
And  from  the  gleaming  amaranth  in  his  hair, 
A  splendor  fell  on  Judith,  and  she  grew, 
From  her  black  tresses  to  her  arched  feet, 
Fairer  than  morning  in  Arabia. 
Then  silently  the  Presence  spread  his  vans, 
And  rose,  —  a  luminous  shadow  in  the  air,  — 
And  through  the  zodiac,  a  white  star,  shot. 


JUDITH.  21 

As  one  that  wakens  from  a  trance,  she  turned, 
And  heard  the  twilight  twitterings  of  birds, 
The  wind  i'  the  turret,  and  from  far  below 
Camp-sounds  of  pawing  hoof  and  clinking  steel ; 
And  in  the  East  she  saw  the  early  dawn 
Breaking  theNight's  enchantment, — saw  the  Moon, 
Like  some  wan  sorceress,  vanish  in  mid-heaven, 
Leaving  a  moth-like  glimmer  where  she  died. 

Now  from  the  dewy  lowlands  floated  up 
Loose  folds  of  mist  that  caught  at  every  crag 
And  melted  m  the  sunlight ;  then  the  Morn 
Stood  full  and  perfect  on  the  jasper  hills. 
And  Judith  rose,  and  down  the  spiral  stairs 
Descended  to  the  garden  of  the  Tower, 
Where,  at  the  gate,  lounged  Achior,  lately  fled 
From  Holofernes ;  as  she  past  she  spoke  : 
« The  Lord  be  with  thee,  Achior,  all  thy  days/ 
And  Achior  saw  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord 
Had  been  with  her,  and,  in  a  single  night, 
Worked  such  a  miracle  of  form  and  face 
As  left  her  lovelier  than  all  womankind 
Who  was  before  the  fairest  in  Judaea. 
But  she,  unconscious  of  God's  miracle, 


22  JUDITH. 

Moved  swiftly  on  among  a  frozen  group 

Of  statues  that  with  empty,  slim-necked  urns 

Taunted  the  thirsty  Seneschal,  until 

She  came  to  where,  beneath  the  spreading  palms, 

Sat  Chabris  with  Ozias  and  his  friend 

Charmis,  governors  of  the  leaguered  town. 

They  saw  a  glory  shining  on  her  face 

Like  daybreak,  and  they  marvelled  as  she  stood 

Bending  before  them  with  humility. 

And  wrinkled  Charmis  murmured   through   his 

beard : 
'  This  woman  walketh  in  the  smile  of  God.' 

*  So  walk  we  all/  spoke  Judith.     '  Evermore 
His  light  envelops  us,  and  only  those 
Who  turn  aside  their  faces  droop  and  die 
In  utter  midnight.     If  we  faint  we  die. 
O,  is  it  true,  Ozias,  thou  hast  sworn 
To  yield  our  people  to  their  enemies 
After  five  days,  unless  the  Lord  shall  stoop 
From  heaven  to  help  us  ? ' 

And  Ozias  said  : 
'  Our  young  men  die  upon  the  battlements ; 


JUDITH.  • 

Our  wives  and  children  by  the  empty  tanks 
Lie  down  and  perish.' 

'  If  we  faint  we  die. 

The  weak  heart  builds  its  palace  on  the  sand, 
The  flood-tide  eats  the  palace  of  a  fool : 
But  whoso  trusts  in  God,  as  Jacob  did, 
Though  suffering  greatly  even  to  the  end, 
Dwells  in  a  citadel  upon  a  rock 
That  wind  nor  wave  nor  fire  shall  topple  down.' 

'  Our  young  men  die  upon  the  battlements,' 
Answered  Ozias  ;  <  by  the  dusty  wells 
Our  wives  and  children.' 

'  They  shall  go  and  dwell 
With  Seers  and  Prophets  in  eternal  joy ! 
Is  there  no  God  ?  ' 

'  One  only,'  Chabris  spoke, 
'  But  now  His  face  is  darkened  in  a  cloud. 
He  sees  not  Israel.' 

'  Is  His  mercy  less 
Than  Holofernes '  ?     Shall  we  place  our  faith 


24  JUDITH. 

In  this  fierce  bull  of  Assur,  —  are  we  mad 
That  we  so  tear  our  throats  with  our  own  hands  ?  ' 
And  Judith's  eyes  flashed  battle  on  the  three, 
Though  all  the  woman  quivered  at  her  lip 
Struggling  with  tears. 

<  In  God  we  place  our  trust/ 
Said  old  Ozias,  '  yet  for  five  days  more.* 

'Ah !  His  time  is  not  man's  time,'  Judith  cried, 
'  And  why  should  we,  the  dust  about  His  feet, 
Decide  the  hour  of  our  deliverance, 
Saying  to  Him,  Thus  shall  Thou  do,  and  so  ? ' 

Then  gray  Ozias  bowed  his  head,  abashed 
That  eighty  winters  had  not  made  him  wise, 
For  all  the  drifted  snow  of  his  long  beard : 
'  This  woman  speaketh  wisely.     "We  were  wrong 
That  in  our  anguish  mocked  the  Lord  our  God, 
The  staff,  the  scrip,  the  stream  whereat  we  drink.' 
And  then  to  Judith :  '  Child,  what  wouldst  thou 
have  ? ' 

'  I  know  and  know  not.     Something  I  know  not 
Makes  music  in  my  bosom ;  as  I  move 
A  presence  goes  before  me,  and  I  hear 


JUDITH.  25 

New  voices  mingling  in  the  upper  air ; 
Within  my  hand  there  seems  another  hand 
Close-prest,  that  leads  me  to  yon  dreadful  camp ; 
While  in  my  brain  the  fragments  of  a  dream 
Lie  like  a  broken  string  of  diamonds, 
The  choicest  missing.     Ask  no  more.     I  know 

And  know  not See !  the  very  air  is  white 

With  fingers  pointing.     Where  they  point  I  go  : 
Some  Spirit  drags  me  thither,  and  I  go.' 

She   spoke  and  paused :    the   three  old   men 

looked  up  * 

And  saw  a  sudden  motion  in  the  air 
Of  white  hands  waving  :  and  they  dared  not  speak, 
But  muffled  their  thin  faces  in  their  robes, 
And  sat  like  those  grim  statues  which  the  wind 
Near  some  unpeopled  city  in  the  East 
From  foot  to  forehead  wraps  in  desert  dust. 

« Ere  thrice  the  shadow  of  the  temple  slants 
Across  the  fountain,  I  shall  come  again.' 
Thus  Judith  softly  :  then  a  gleam  of  light 
Played  through  the  silken  lashes  of  her  eyes, 
As  lightning  through  the  purple  of  a  cloud 


26  JUDITH. 

On  some  still  tropic  evening,  when  the  hreeze 
Lifts  not  a  single  blossom  from  the  bough  : 
'  What  lies  in  that  unfolded  flower  of  time 
No  man  may  know.     The  thing  I  can  I  will, 
Leaning  on  God,  remembering  how  He  loved 
Jacob  in  Syria  when  he  fed  the  flocks 
Of  Laban,  and  what  miracles  He  did 
For  Abraham  and  for  Isaac  at  their  need. 
"Wait  thou  the  end ;  and,  till  I  come,  keep  thou 
The  sanctuaries/ 

And  Ozias  swore 

By  those  weird  fingers  pointing  in  the  air, 
And  by  the  soul  of  Abraham  gone  to  rest, 
To  keep  the  sanctuaries,  though  she  came 
And  found  the  bat  sole  tenant  of  the  Tower, 
And  all  the  people  bleaching  on  the  walls, 
And  no  voice  left.     Then  Judith  moved  away, 
Her  head  bowed  on  her  bosom,  like  to  one 
That  moulds  some  subtle  purpose  in  a  dream, 
And  in  his  passion  rises  up  and  walks 
Through  labyrinths  of  slumber  to  the  dawn. 

When  she  had  gained  her  chamber  she  threw  off 
The  livery  of  sorrow  for  her  lord, 


JUDITH.  27 

The  cruel  sackcloth  that  begirt  her  limbs, 
And  from  those  ashen  colors  issuing  forth, 
Seemed  like  a  golden  butterfly  new-slipt 
From  its  dull  chrysalis.     Then,  after  bath, 
She  braided  in  the  darkness  of  her  hair 
A  thread  of  opals  ;  on  her  rounded  breast 
Spilt  precious  ointment ;  and  put  on  the  robes 
Whose  rustling  made  her  pause,  half-garmented,  • 
To  dream  a  moment  of  her  bridal  morn. 
Of  snow-white  samyte  were  the  robes,  and  rich 
With  delicate  branch-work,  silver-frosted  star, 
And  many  a  broidered  lily-of-the-vale. 
These  things  became  her  as  the  scent  the  rose, 
For  fairest  things  are  beauty's  natural  dower. 
The  sun  that  through  the  jealous  casement  stole 
Fawned  on  the  Hebrew  woman  as  she  stood, 
Toyed  with  the  oval  pendant  at  her  ear, 
And,  like  a  lover,  stealing  to  her  lips 
Taught  them  a  deeper  crimson ;  then  slipt  down 
The  tremulous  lilies  to  the  sandal  straps 
That  bound  her  snowy  ankles. 

Forth  she  went, 
A  glittering  wonder,  through  the  crowded  streets, 


28  JUDITH. 

Her  handmaid,  like  a  shadow,  following  on. 
And  as  in  summer  when  the  beaded  wheat 
Leans  all  one  way,  and  with  a  longing  look 
Marks  the  quick  convolutions  of  the  wind : 
So  all  eyes  went  with  Judith  as  she  moved, 
All  hearts  leaned  to  her  with  a  weight  of  love. 
A  starving  woman  lifted  ghostly  hands 
And  blest  her  for  old  chanties ;  a  child 
Smiled  on  her  through  its  tears,  and  one  gaunt  chief 
Threw  down  his  battle-axe  and  doffed  his  helm, 
As  if  some  bright  Immortal  swept  him  by. 

So  forth  she  fared,  the  only  thing  of  light 
In  that  dark  city,  thridding  tortuous  ways 
By  gloomy  arch  and  frowning  barbacan, 
Until  she  reached  a  gate  of  triple  brass 
That  opened  at  her  coming,  and  swung  to 
With  horrid  clangor  and  a  ring  of  bolts. 
And  there,  outside  the  city  of  her  love, 
"The  warm  blood  at  her  pulses,  Judith  paused 
And  drank  the  morning ;  then  with  silent  prayers 
Moved  on  through  flakes  of  sunlight,  through  the 

wood 
To  Holofernes  and  his  barbarous  hordes. 


JUDITH.  29 

H. 

THE    CAMP   OF   ASSUE. 

A  S  on  the  house-tops  of  a  seaport  town, 
*^-  After  a  storm  has  lashed  the  dangerous  coast, 
The  people  crowd  to  watch  some  hopeless  ship 
Tearing  its  heart  upon  the  unseen  reef, 
And  strain  their  sight  to  catch  the  tattered  sail 
That  comes  and  goes,  and  glimmers,  till  at  length 
No  eye  can  find  it,  and  a  sudden  awe 
Falls  on  the  people,  and  no  soul  may  speak : 
So,  from  the  windy  parapets  and  roofs 
Of  the  embattled  city,  anxious  groups 
"Watched  the  faint  flutter  of  a  woman's  dress,  — 
Judith's, — who,  toiling  up  a  distant  hill, 
Seemed  but  a  speck  against  the  sunny  green  ; 
Yet  ever  as  the  wind  drew  back  her  robes, 
They  saw  her  from  the  towers,  until  she  reached 
The  crest,  and  past  into  the  azure  sky. 
Then,  each  one  gazing  on  his  neighbor's  face, 
Speechless,  descended  to  the  level  world. 


3o  JUDITH. 

Before  his  tent,  stretched  on  a  leopard-skin, 
Lay  Holofernes,  ringed  by  his  dark  lords,  — 
Himself  the  prince  of  darkness.     At  his  side 
His  iron  helmet  poured  upon  the  grass 
Its  plume  of  horse-hair  ;  on  his  ponderous  spear, 
The  flinty  barb  thrust  half  its  length  in  earth, 
As  if  some  giant  had  flung  it,  hung  his  shield, 
And  on  the  burnished  circuit  of  the  shield 
A  sinewy  dragon,  rampant,  silver-fanged, 
Glared  horrible  with  sea-green  emerald  eyes  ; 
And  as  the  sunshine  struck  across  it,  writhed, 
And  seemed  a  type  of  those  impatient  lords 
Who,  in  the  loud  war-council  here  convened, 
Gave  voice  for  battle,  and  with  fiery  words 
Opposed  the  cautious  wisdom  of  their  peers. 
So  seemed  the  restless  dragon  on  the  shield. 

Baleful  and  sullen  as  a  sulphurous  cloud 
Packed  with  the  lightning,  Holofernes  lay, 
Brooding  upon  the  diverse  arguments, 
Himself  not  arguing,  but  listening  most 
To  the  curt  phrases  of  the  snow-haired  chiefs. 
And  some  said  :  « Take  the  city  by  assault, 
And  grind  it  into  atoms  at  a  blow.' 


JUDITH.  31 

And  some  said  :  '  Wait.     There 's  that  within  the 

walls 

Shall  gnaw  its  heart  out,  —  hunger.    Let  us  wait/ 
To  which  the  younger  chieftains  :  '  If  we  wait, 
Ourselves  shall  starve.     Like  locusts  we  have  fed 
Upon  the  land  till  there  is  nothing  left, 
Nor  grass,  nor  grain,  nor  any  living  thing. 
And  if  at  last  we  take  a  famished  town 
"With  fifty  thousand  ragged  skeletons, 
What  boots  it  ?     We  shall  hunger  all  the  same. 
Now,  by  great  Baal,  we  'd  rather  die  at  once 
Than    languish,    scorching,   on   these   sun-baked 

hills ! ' 

At  which  the  others  called  them  '  fretful  girls/ 
And  scoffed  at  them  :  <  Ye  should  have  stayed  at 

home, 

And  decked  your  hair  with  sunny  butterflies, 
Like  King  Arphaxad's  harlots.     Know  ye  not 
Patience  and  valor  are  the  head  and  heart 
Of  warriors  ?     Who  lacks  in  either,  fails. 
Have  we  not  hammered  with  our  catapults 
Those  stubborn  gates  ?     Have  we  not  hurled  our 

men 


3  a  JUDITH. 

Against  the  angry  torrent  of  their  spears  ? 

Mark  how  those  birds  that  wheel  above  yon  wood, 

In  clanging  columns,  settle  greedily  down 

Upon  the  unearthed  bodies  of  our  dead. 

See  where  they  rise,  red-beaked  and  surfeited ! 

Has  it  availed  ?     Let  us  be  patient,  then, 

And  bide  the  sorran  pleasure  of  the  gods.' 

*  And  when/  quoth  one,  '  our  stores  of  meat  are 

gone, 

We  '11  even  feed  upon  the  tender  flesh 
Of  these  tame  girls,  who,  though  they  dress  in 

steel, 

Like  more  the  dulcet  tremors  of  a  lute 
Than  the  shrill  whistle  of  an  arrow-head/ 

"At  this  a  score  of  falchions  leapt  in  air, 
And  hot-breathed  words  took  flight  from  bearded 

lips, 

And  they  had  slain  each  other  in  their  heat, 
These  savage  captains,  quick  with  bow  and  spear, 
But  that  dark  Holofernes  started  up 
To  his  full  height,  and,  speaking  not  a  word, 
With  anger-knitted  forehead  glared  at  them. 
As  they  shrunk  back,  their  passion  and  their  shame 


JUDITH.  33 

Gave  place  to  wonder,  finding  in  their  midst 
A  woman  whose  exceeding  radiance 
Of  brow  and  bosom  made  her  garments  seem 
Threadbare  and  lusterless,  yet  whose  attire 
Outshone  the  purples  of  a  Persian  queen. 

For  Judith,  who  knew  all  the  mountain  paths 
As  one  may  know  the  delicate  azure  veins, 
Each  crossing  each,  on  his  beloved's  wrist, 
Had  stolen  between  the  archers  in  the  wood 
And  gained  the  straggling  outskirts  of  the  camp, 
And  seeing  the  haughty  gestures  of  the  chiefs, 
Halted,  with  fear,  and  knew  not  where  to  turn ; 
Then  taking  heart,  had  silently  approached, 
And  stood  among  them,  until  then  unseen. 
And  in  the  air,  like  numerous  swarms  of  bees, 
Arose  the  wondering  murmurs  of  the  throng, 
Which  checking,  Holofernes  turned  and  cried, 
«  Who  breaks  upon  our  councils  ? '  angrily, 
But  drinking  then  the  beauty  of  her  eyes, 
And  seeing  the  rosy  magic  of  her  mouth, 
And  all  the  fragrant  summer  of  her  hair 
Blown  sweetly  round  her  forehead,  stood  amazed ; 
And  in  the  light  of  her  pure  modesty 
3 


34  JUDITH. 

His  voice  took  gentler  accent  unawares  : 
'  "Whence  come  ye  1 ' 

« From  yon  city/ 

'  By  our  life, 

We  thought  the  phantom  of  some  murdered  queen 
Had  risen  from  dead  summers  at  our  feet ! 
If  these  Judscan  women  are  so  shaped, 
Daughters  of  goddesses,  let  none  be  slain. 
"What  seek  ye,  woman,  in  the  hostile  camps 
Of  Assur  ? ' 

'  Holo  femes.' 

'  This  is  he/ 

'  O  good  my  lord,'  cried  Judith,  '  if  indeed 
That  art  that  Holofernes  whom  I  seek, 
And  seeking  dread  to  find,  low  at  thy  feet 
Behold  thy  handmaid,  who  in  fear  has  flown 
From  a  doomed  people.' 

'  "Wherein  thou  wert  wise 
Beyond  the  usual  measure  of  thy  sex, 


JUDITH.  35 

And  shalt  have  such  observance  as  a  king 
Gives  to  his  mistress,  though  our  enemy. 
As  for  thy  people,  they  shall  rue  the  hour 
That  brought  not  tribute  to  the  lord  of  all, 
Nabuchodonosor.     But  thou  shalt  live.' 

1  O  good  my  lord,'  thus  Judith  ;  <  as  thou  wilt, 
So  would  thy  handmaid ;  and  I  pray  thee  now 
Let  those  that  listen  stand  awhile  aloof, 
For  I  have  that  for  thine  especial  ear 
Most  precious  to  thee.' 

Then  the  crowd  fell  back, 
Muttering,  and  half  reluctantly,  because 
Her  beauty  drew  them  as  the  moon  the  sea  — 
Fell  back  and  lingered,  leaning  on  their  shields 
Under  the  trees,  some  couchant  in  the  grass, 
Broad-throated,  large-lunged  Titans  overthrown, 
Eyeing  the  Hebrew  woman,  whose  sweet  looks 
Brought  them  a  sudden  vision  of  their  wives 
And  longings  for  them  :  and  her  presence  there 
Was  as  a  spring  that,  in  Sahara's  wastes, 
Taking  the  thirsty  traveller  by  surprise, 
Loosens  its  silver  music  at  his  feet. 


3  6  JUDITH. 

Thus  Judith,  modest,  with  down-drooping  eyes  : 

*  My  lord,  if  yet  thou  holdest  in  thy  thought 
The  words  which  Achior  the  Ammonite 
Once  spake  to  thee  concerning  Israel, 
O  treasure  them,  for  in  them  was  no  guile. 
True  is  it,  master,  that  our  people  kneel 
To  an  unseen  but  not  an  unknown  God : 
By  day  and  night  He  watches  over  us, 
And  while  we  worship  Him  we  cannot  die, 
Our  tabernacles  shall  be  unprofaned, 
Our  spears  invincible ;  but  if  we  sin, 
If  we  transgress  the  law  by  which  we  live, 
Our  temples  shall  be  desecrate,  our  tribes 
Thrust  forth  into  the  howling  wilderness, 
Scourged  and  accursed.     Therefore,  0  my  lord, 
Seeing  this  nation  wander  from  the  faith 
Taught  of  the  Prophets,  I  have  fled  dismayed, 
For  fear  the  towers  might  crush  me  as  they  fall. 
Heed,  Holofernes,  what  I  speak  this  day, 
And  if  the  thing  I  tell  thee  prove  not  true 
Ere  thrice  the  sun  goes  down  beyond  those  peaks, 
Then  straightway  plunge  thy  falchion  in  my  breast, 
For  't  were  not  meet  that  thy  handmaid  should  live, 
Having  deceived  the  crown  and  flower  of  men.' 


JUDITH.  37 

She  spoke  and  paused  :  and  sweeter  on  his  ear 
Were  Judith's  words  than  ever  seemed  to  him 
The  wanton  laughter  of  the  Assyrian  girls 
In  the  bazaars ;  and  listening  he  heard  not 
The  never-ceasing  murmurs  of  the  camp, 
The  neighing  of  the  awful  battle-steeds, 
Nor  the  vain  wind  among  the  drowsy  palms. 
The  tents  that  straggled  up  the  hot  hillsides, 
The  warriors  lying  in  the  tangled  grass, 
The  fanes  and  turrets  of  the  distant  town, 
And  all  that  was,  dissolved  and  past  away, 
Save  this  one  woman  with  her  twilight  eyes 
And  the  miraculous  cadence  of  her  voice. 

Then  Judith,  catching  at  the  broken  thread 
Of  her  discourse,  resumed,  to  closer  draw 
The  silken  net  about  the  foolish  prince ; 
And  as  she  spoke,  from  time  to  time  her  gaze 
Dwelt  on  his  massive  stature,  and  she  saw 
That  he  was  shapely,  knitted  like  a  god, 
A  tower  beside  the  men  of  her  own  land. 

'  Heed,  Holoferaes,  what  I  speak  this  day, 
And  thou  shalt  rule  not  only  Bethulia, 


38  JUDITH. 

Rich  with  its  hundred  altars'  crusted  gold, 
But  Cadcs-Barne,  Jerusalem,  and  all 
The  vast  hill-country  even  to  the  sea  : 
For  I  am  come  to  give  unto  thy  hands 
The  key  of  Israel  —  Israel  now  no  more, 
Since  she  disowns  her  Prophets  and  her  God. 
Know  then,  O  lord,  it  is  our  yearly  use 
To  lay  aside  the  first  fruit  of  the  grain, 
And  so  much  oil,  so  many  skins  of  wine, 
Which,  being  sanctified,  are  kept  intact 
For  the  High  Priests  who  serve  before  our  God 
In  the  great  temple  at  Jerusalem. 
This  holy  food  —  which  even  to  touch  is  death  — 
The  rulers,  sliding  from  their  ancient  faith, 
"Would  fain  lay  hands  on,  being  wellnigh  starved ; 
And  they  have  sent  a  runner  to  the  Priests 
(The  Jew  Ben  Raphaim,  who,  at  dead  of  night, 
Shot  like  a  javelin  between  thy  guards), 
Bearing  a  parchment  begging  that  the  Church 
Yield  them  permit  to  eat  the  sacred  corn. 
But  't  is  not  lawful  they  should  do  this  thing, 
Yet  will  they  do  it.     Then  shalt  thou  behold 
The  archers  tumbling  headlong  from  the  walls, 
Their  strength  gone  from  them ;  thou  shall  see 
the  spears 


JUDITH. 


39 


Splitting  like  reeds  within  the  spearman's  hands, 
And  the  pale  captains  tottering  like  old  men 
Stricken  with  palsy.     Then,  O  glorious  prince, 
Then  with  thy  trumpets  blaring  doleful  dooms, 
And  thy  silk  banners  flapping  in  the  wind, 
With  squares  of  men  and  eager  clouds  of  horse 
Thou  shalt  swoop  down  on  them,  and  strike  them 

dead ! 

But  now,  my  lord,  before  this  come  to  pass, 
Three  days  must  wane,  for  they  touch  not  the 

food 

Until  the  Jew  Ben  Raphaim  shall  return 
With  the  Priests'  message.     Here  among  thy  hosts, 
O  Holofernes,  will  I  dwell  the  while, 
Asking  but  this,  that  I  and  my  handmaid 
Each  night,  at  the  twelfth  hour,  may  egress  have 
Unto  the  valley,  there  to  weep  and  pray 
That  God  forsake  this  nation  in  its  sin. 
And  as  my  prophecy  prove  true  or  false, 
So  be  it  with  me/ 

Judith  ceased,  and  stood, 
Her  hands  across  her  bosom,  as  in  prayer ; 
And  Holofernes  answered : 


40  JUDITH. 

'  Be  it  so. 

And  if,  O  pearl  of  women,  the  event 
Prove  not  a  drawf  beside  the  prophecy, 
Then  there  's  no  woman  like  thee  —  no,  not  one. 
Thy  name  shall  be  renowned  through  the  world, 
Music  shall  wait  on  thee,  thou  shalt  have  crowns, 
And  jewel-chests  of  costly  camphor-wood, 
And  robes  as  glossy  as  the  ring-dove's  neck, 
And  milk-white  mares,  and  chariots,  and  slaves : 
And  thou  shalt  dwell  with  me  in  Ninevsh, 
In  Nineveh,  the  City  of  the  Gods  1 ' 

At  which  the  Jewish  woman  bowed  her  head 
Humbly,  that  Holofernes  might  not  see 
How  blanched  her  cheek  grew.     'Even  as  thou 

wilt, 

So  would  thy  servant/     At  a  word  the  slaves 
Brought  meat  and  wine,  and  placed  them  in  a  tent, 
A  silk  pavilion,  wrought  with  arabesques, 
That  stood  apart,  for  Judith  and  her  maid. 
But  Judith  ate  not,  saying  :  <  Master,  no. 
It  is  not  lawful  that  we  taste  of  these  ; 
My  maid  has  brought  a  pouch  of  parched  corn, 
And  bread,  and  figs,  and  wine  of  our  own  land, 


JUDITH.  4! 

Which  shall  not  fail  us/     Holofernes  said, 
'  So  let  it  be/  and  lifting  up  the  screen 
Past  out,  and  left  them  sitting  in  the  tent. 

That  day  he  mixt  not  with  the  warriors 
As  was  his  wont,  nor  watched  them  at  their  games 
In  the  wide  shadow  of  the  terebinth-trees ; 
But  up  and  down  within  a  lonely  grove 
Paced  slowly,  brooding  on  her  perfect  face, 
Saying  her  smooth  words  over  to  himself, 
Heedless  of  time,  till  he  looked  up  and  saw 
The  spectre  of  the  Twilight  on  the  hills. 

The  fame  of  Judith's  loveliness  had  flown 
From  lip  to  lip  throughout  the  canvas  town, 
And  as  the  evening  deepened,  many  came 
From  neighboring  camps,  with  frivolous  excuse, 
To  pass  the  green  pavilion  —  long-haired  chiefs 
That  dwelt  by  the  Hydaspe,  and  the  sons 
Of  the  Elymeans,  and  slim  Tartar  youths ; 
But  saw  not  her,  who,  shut  from  common  air, 
Basked  in  the  twilight  of  the  tapestries. 

But  when  night  came,  and  all  the  camp  was  still, 


4z  JUDITH. 

And  nothing  moved  beneath  the  icy  stars 

In  their  blue  bourns,  except  some  stealthy  guard, 

A  shadow  among  shadows,  Judith  rose, 

Calling  her  servant,  and  the  sentinel 

Drew  back,  and  let  her  pass  beyond  the  lines 

Into  the  valley.     And  her  heart  was  full, 

Seeing  the  watch-fires  burning  on  the  towers 

Of  her  own  city  :  and  she  knelt  and  prayed 

For  it  and  them  that  dwelt  within  its  walls, 

And  was  refreshed  —  such  balm  there  lies  in  prayer 

For  those  who  know  God  listens.     Straightway 

then 
The  two  returned,  and  all  the  camp  was  still. 

One  cresset  twinkled  dimly  in  the  tent 
Of  Holofernes,  and  Bagoas,  his  slave, 
Lay  prone  across  the  matting  at  the  door, 
Drunk  with  the  wine  of  slumber ;  but  his  lord 
Slept  not,  or,  sleeping,  rested  not  for  thought 
Of  Judith's  beauty.     Two  large  lucent  eyes, 
Tender  and  full  as  moons,  dawned  on  his  sleep ; 
And  when  he  woke,  they  filled  the  vacant  dark 
With  an  unearthly  splendor.     All  night  long 
A  stately  figure  glided  through  his  dream ; 


JUDITH.  43 

Sometimes  a  queenly  diadem  weighed  down 
Its  braided  tresses,  and  sometimes  it  came 
Draped  only  in  a  misty  cloud  of  vails, 
Like  the  King's  dancing-girl  at  Nineveh. 
And  once  it  bent  above  him  in  the  gloom, 
And  touched  his  forehead  with  most  hungry  lips. 
Then  Holofernes  turned  upon  his  couch, 
And,  yearning  for  the  daybreak,  slept  no  more. 


in. 

THE     FLIGHT. 

T  N  the  far  east,  as  viewless  tides  of  time 
•*•    Drew  on  the  drifting  shallop  of  the  Dawn, 
A  fringe  of  gold  went  rippling  up  the  gray, 
And  breaking  rosily  on  cliff  and  spur, 
Still  left  the  vale  in  shadow.     While  the  fog 
Folded  the  camp  of  Assur,  and  the  dew 
Yet  shook  in  clusters  on  the  new  green  leaf, 
And  not  a  bird  had  dipt  a  wing  in  air, 
The  restless  captain,  haggard  with  no  sleep, 


44  JUDITH. 

Stept  over  the  curved  body  of  his  slave, 
And  thridding  moodily  the  dingy  tents, 
Hives  packed  with  sleepers,  stood  within  the  grove 
"Where  he  had  loitered  the  preceding  day ; 
There  sat  him  down  upon  a  scarp  of  rock, 
Mantled  with  lichen,  like  a  Druid  throne, 
And  in  the  cool,  gray  twilight  gave  his  thought 
"Wings  ;  but  however  wide  his  fancies  flew, 
They  circled  still  the  figure  of  his  dream. 

He  sat :  before  him  rose  the  fluted  domes 
Of  Nineveh  his  city,  and  he  heard 
The  clatter  of  the  merchants  in  the  booths 
Selling  their  merchandise  :  and  now  he  breathed 
The  airs  of  a  great  river,  sweeping  down 
Past  carven  pillars,  under  tamarisk  boughs, 
To  where  the  broad  sea  sparkled :  then  he  groped 
In  a  damp  catacomb,  he  knew  not  where, 
By  torchlight,  hunting  for  his  own  grim  name 
On  some  sarcophagus  :  and  as  he  mused, 
From  out  the  ruined  kingdom  of  the  Past 
Glided  the  myriad  women  he  had  wronged, 
The  half-forgotten  passions  of  his  youth ; 
Dark-browed  were  some,  with  haughty,  sultry  eyes, 


JUDITH.  45 

Imperious  and  most  ferocious  loves  ; 

And  some,  meek  blondes  with  lengths  of  flaxen 

hair,  — 

Daughters  of  Sunrise,  shaped  of  fire  and  snow 
And  Holofernes  smiled  a  bitter  smile 
Seeing  these  spectres  in  his  reverie, 
"When  suddenly  one  face  among  the  train 
Turned  full  upon  him,  —  such  a  piteous  face, 
Blanched  with  such  anguish,  looking  such  reproach, 
So  sunken-eyed  and  awful  in  its  woe, 
His  heart  shook  in  his  bosom,  and  he  rose 
As  if  to  smite  it,  and  before  him  stood 
Bagoas,  the  bondsman,  bearing  in  his  arms 
A  jar  of  water,  while  the  morning  broke 
In  dewy  splendor  all  about  the  grove. 

Then  Holofernes,  vext  that  he  was  cowed 
By  his  own  fantasy,  strode  back  to  camp, 
Bagoas  following,  sullen,  like  a  hound 
That  takes  the  color  of  his  master's  mood. 
And  with  the  troubled  captain  went  the  shapes 
Which  even  the  daylight  could  not  exorcise. 

« Go,  fetch  me  wine,  and  let  my  soul  make  cheer, 


46  JUDITH. 

For  I  am  sick  with  visions  of  the  night.  . 
Some  strangest  malady  of  breast  and  brain 
Hath  so  unnerved  me  that  a  rustling  leaf 
Sets  my  pulse  leaping.     'T  is  a  family  flaw, 
A  flaw  in  men  else  flawless,  this  dark  spell : 
I  do  remember  when  my  grandsire  died, 
He  thought  a  blackened  ^Ethiope  he  had  slain 
Was  strangling  him ;  and,  later,  my  own  sire 
Went  mad  with  dreams  the  day  before  his  death. 
And  I,  too  ?     Slave !  go  fetch  me  seas  of  wine, 
That  I  may  drown  these  fantasies  —  no,  stay  ! 
Ransack  the  camps  for  choicest  flesh  and  fruit, 
And  spread  a  feast  within  my  tent  this  night, 
And  hang  the  place  with  garlands  of  new  flowers  ; 
Then  bid  the  Hebrew  woman,  yea  or  nay, 
To  banquet  with  us.     As  thou  lov'st  the  light, 
Bring  her ;  and  if  indeed  the  gods  have  called, 
The  gods  shall  find  me  sitting  at  my  feast 
Consorting  with  a  daughter  of  the  gods  ! ' 

Thus  Holofernes,  turning  on  his  heel 
Impatiently ;  and  straight  Bagoas  went 
And  spoiled  the  camps  of  viands  for  the  feast, 
And  hung  the  place  with  flowers,  as  he  was  bid ; 


JUDITH. 


47 


And  seeing  Judith's  servant  at  the  well, 

Gave  his  lord's  message,  to  which  answer  came : 

<  0  what  am  I  that  should  gainsay  my  lord  1 ' 
And  Holofernes  smiled  within,  and  thought : 

<  Or  life  or  death,  if  I  should  have  her  not 
In  spite  of  all,  my  mighty  name  would  be 
A  word  for  laughter  among  womankind.' 

'  So  soon  ! '  thought  Judith.     '  Flying  pulse,  he 

still ! 

O  Thou  who  lovest  Israel,  give  me  strength 
And  cunning  such  as  never  woman  had, 
That  my  deceit  may  be  his  stripe  and  scar, 
My  kisses  his  destruction  !     This  for  thee, 
My  city,  Bethulia,  this  for  thee ! ' 

And  thrice  that  day  she  prayed  within  her  heart, 
Bowed  down  among  the  cushions  of  the  tent 
In  shame  and  wretchedness  ;  and  thus  she  prayed  : 
'  0  save  me  from  him,  Lord  !  but  save  me  most 
From  mine  own  sinful  self :  for,  lo  !   this  man, 
Though  viler  than  the  vilest  thing  that  walks, 
A  worshipper  of  fire  and  senseless  stone, 
Slayer  of  children,  enemy  of  God,  — 


48  JUDITH. 

He,  even  he,  0  Lord,  forgive  my  sin, 
Hath  by  his  heathen  beauty  moved  me  more 
Than  should  a  daughter  of  Judea  be  moved, 
Save  by  the  noblest.     Clothe  me  with  Thy  love, 
And  rescue  me,  and  let  me  trample  down 
All  evil  thought,  and  from  my  baser  self 
Climb  up  to  Thee,  that  aftertimes  may  say : 
She  tore  the  guilty  passion  from  her  soul,  — 
Judith  the  pure,  the  faithful  unto  death.' 

Half-seen  behind  the  forehead  of  a  crag 
The  evening-star  grew  sharp  against  the  dusk, 
As  Judith  lingered  by  the  curtained  door 
Of  her  pavilion,  waiting  for  Bagoas  : 
Erewhile  he  came,  and  led  her  to  the  tent 
Of  Holofernes  ;  and  she  entered  in, 
And  knelt  before  him  in  the  cresset's  glare 
Demurely,  like  a  slave-girl  at  the  feet 
Of  her  new  master,  while  the  modest  blood 
Makes  protest  to  the  eyelids ;  and  he  leaned 
Graciously  over  her,  and  bade  her  rise 
And  sit  beside  him  on  the  leopard-skins. 
But  Judith  would  not,  yet  with  gentlest  grace 
"Would  not ;  and  partly  to  conceal  her  blush, 


JUDITH. 


49 


Partly  to  quell  the  riot  in  her  breast, 

She  turned,  and  wrapt  her  in  her  fleecy  scarf, 

And  stood  aloof,  nor  looked  as  one  that  breathed, 

But  rather  like  some  jewelled  deity 

Ta'en  by  a  conqueror  from  its  sacred  niche, 

And  placed  among  the  trappings  of  his  tent,  — 

So  pure  was  Judith. 

For  a  moment's  space 
She  stood,  then  stealing  softly  to  his  side, 
Knelt  down  by  him,  and  with  uplifted  face, 
Whereon  the  red  rose  blossomed  with  the  white : 
'  This  night,  my  lord,  no  other  slave  than  I 
Shall  wait  on  thee  with  fruits  and  flowers  and  wine. 
So  subtle  am  I,  I  shall  know  thy  wish 
Ere  thou  canst  speak  it.     Let  Bagoas  go 
Among  his  people :  let  me  wait  and  serve, 
More  happy  as  thy  handmaid  than  thy  guest.' 

Thereat  he  laughed,  and,  humoring  her  mood, 
Gave  the  black  bondsman  freedom  for  the  night. 
Then  Judith  moved,  obsequious,  and  placed 
The  meats  before  him,  and  pdured  out  the  wine, 
Holding  the  golden  goblet  while  he  ate, 
4 


5o  JUDITH. 

Nor  ever  past  it  empty ;  and  the  wine 
Seemed  richer  to  him  for  those  slender  hands. 
So  Judith  served,  and  Holofernes  drank, 
Until  the  lamps  that  glimmered  round  the  tent 
In  mad  processions  danced  before  his  gaze. 

"Without,  the  moon  dropt  down  behind  the  sky ; 
Within,  the  odors  of  the  heavy  flowers, 
And  the  aromas  of  the  mist  that  curled 
From  swinging  cressets,  stole  into  the  air; 
And  through  the  mist  he  saw  her  come  and  go, 
Now  showing  a  faultless  arm  against  the  light, 
And  now  a  dainty  sandal  set  with  gems. 
At  last  he  knew  not  in  what  place  he  was. 
For  as  a  man  who,  softly  held  by  sleep, 
Knows  that  he  dreams,  yet  knows  not  true  from 

false, 

Perplext  between  the  margins  of  two  worlds : 
So  Holofernes,  flushed  with  the  red  wine. 

Like  a  bride's  eyes,  the  eyes  of  Judith  shone, 
As  ever  bending  over  him  with  smiles 
She  filled  the  generous  chalice  to  the  edge ; 
And  half  he  shrunk  from  her,  and  knew  not  why, 


JUDITH.  51 

Then  wholly  loved  her  for  her  loveliness, 

And  drew  her  close  to  him,  and  breathed  her 

breath ; 

And  once  he  thought  the  Hebrew  woman  sang 
A  wine-song,  touching  on  a  certain  king 
Who,  dying  of  strange  sickness,  drank,  and  past 
Beyond  the  touch  of  mortal  agony,  — 
A  vague  tradition  of  the  cunning  sprite 
That  dwells  within  the  circle  of  the  grape. 
And  thus  he  heard,  or  fancied  that  he  heard :  — 

'  The  small  green  grapes  in  countless  clusters 

grew, 

Feeding  on  mystic  moonlight  and  white  dew 
And  mellow  sunshine,  the  long  summer  through  : 

'  Till,  with  faint  tremor  in  her  veins,  the  Vine 
Felt  the  delicious  pulses  of  the  wine ; 
And  the  grapes  ripened  in  the  year's  decline. 

'And  day  by  day  the  Virgins  watched  their 

charge ; 

And  when,  at  last,  beyond  the  horizon's  marge, 
The  harvest-moon  droopt  beautiful  and  large, 


5  a  JUDITH. 

'  The  subtle  spirit  in  the  grape  was  caught, 
And  to  the  slowly-dying  Monarch  brought, 
In  a  great  cup  fantastically  wrought, 

« Whereof  he  drank ;  then  straightway  from  his 

brain 

Went  the  weird  malady,  and  once  again 
He  walked  the  Palace,  free  of  scar  or  pain,  — 

«But  strangely  changed,  for  somehow  he  had 

lost 

Body  and  voice  :  the  courtiers,  as  he  crost 
The    royal   chambers,  whispered,  —  The  King's 


'  A  potent  medicine  for  kings  and  men,' 
Thus  Holofernes ;  '  he  was  wise  to  drink. 
Be  thou  as  wise,  fair  Judith.'     As  he  spoke, 
He  stoopt  to  kiss  the  treacherous  soft  hand 
That  rested  like  a  snowflake  on  his  arm, 
But  stooping  reeled,  and  from  the  place  he  sat 
Toppled,  and  fell  among  the  leopard-skins  : 
There  lay,  nor  stirred ;  and  ere  ten  beats  of  heart, 
The  tawny  giant  slumbered.     Judith  knelt 


JUDITH. 


S3 


And  gazed  upon  him,  and  her  thoughts  were  dark ; 
For  half  she  longed  to  bid  her  purpose  die,  — 
To  stay,  to  weep,  to  fold  him  in  her  arms, 
To  let  her  long  hair  loose  upon  his  face, 
As  on  a  mountain-top  some  amorous  cloud 
Lets  down  its  sombre  tresses  of  fine  rain. 
For  one  wild  instant  in  her  burning  arms 
She  held  him  sleeping ;  then  grew  wan  as  death, 
Kelaxed  her  hold,  and  starting  from  his  side 
As  if  an  asp  had  stung  her  to  the  quick, 
Listened  ;  and  listening,  she  heard  the  moans 
Of  little  children  moaning  in  the  streets 
Of  Bethulia,  saw  famished  women  pass, 
Wringing  their  hands,  and  on  the  broken  walls 
The  flower  of  Israel  dying. 

With  quick  breath 

Judith  blew  out  the  tapers,  all  save  one, 
And  from  his  twisted  baldrick  loosed  the  sword, 
And  grasping  the  huge  hilt  with  her  two  hands, 
Thrice  smote  the  Prince  of  Assur  as  he  lay, 
Thrice  on  his  neck  she  smote  him  as  he  lay, 
And  from  the  brawny  shoulders  rolled  the  head 
Winking  and  ghastly  in  the  cresset's  light ; 


54  JUDITH. 

Which  done,  she  fled  into  the  yawning  dark, 
There  met  her  maid,  who,  stealing  to  the  tent, 
Pulled  down  the  crimson  arras  on  the  corse, 
And  in  her  mantle  wrapt  the  brazen  head, 
And  brought  it  with  her ;  and  a  great  gong  boomed 
Twelve,  as  the  women  glided  past  the  guard 
"With  measured  footstep  :  but  outside  the  camp, 
Terror  seized  on  them,  and  they  fled  like  wraiths 
Through  the  hushed  midnight  into  the  black  woods, 
Where,  from  gnarled  roots  and  ancient,  palsied 

trees, 
Dread  shapes,  upstarting,  clutched  at  them ;  and 

once 

A  nameless  bird  in  branches  overhead 
Screeched,  and  the  blood  grew  cold  about  their 

hearts. 

By  mouldy  caves,  the  hooded  viper's  haunt, 
Down  perilous  steeps,  and  through  the  desolate 

gorge, 

Onward  they  flew,  with  madly  streaming  hair, 
Bearing  their  hideous  burden,  till  at  last, 
Wild  with  the  pregnant  horrors  of  the  night, 
They  dashed  themselves  against  the  City's  gate. 


JUDITH. 


55 


The  hours  dragged  by,  and  in  the  Assur  camp 
The  pulse  of  life  was  throbbing  languidly. 
When  from  the  outer  waste  an  Arab  scout 
Eushed  pale  and  breathless  on  the  morning  watch, 
With  a  strange  story  of  a  Head  that  hung 
High  in  the  air  above  the  City's  wall,  — 
A  livid  Head  with  knotted,  snake-like  curls,  — 
And  how  the  face  was  like  a  face  he  knew, 
And  how  it  turned  and  twisted  in  the  wind, 
And  how  it  stared  upon  him  with  fixt  orbs, 
Till  it  was  not  in  mortal  man  to  stay ; 
And  how  he  fled,  and  how  he  thought  the  Thing 
Came  bowling  through  the  wheat-fields  after  him. 
And  some  that  listened  were  appalled,  and  some 
Derided  him ;  but  not  the  less  they  threw 
A  furtive  glance  toward  the  shadowy  wood. 

Bagoas,  among  the  idlers,  heard  the  man, 
And  quick  to  bear  the  tidings  to  his  lord, 
Ran  to  the  tent,  and  called,  '  My  lord,  awake ! 
Awake,  my  lord ! '  and  lingered  for  reply. 
But  answer  came  there  none.     Again  he  called, 
And  all  was  still.     Then,  laughing  in  his  heart 
To  think  how  deeply  Holofernes  slept 


5  6  JUDITH. 

Wrapt  in  soft  arms,  he  lifted  up  the  screen, 
And  marvelled,  finding  no  one  in  the  tent 
Save  Holofernes,  buried,  as  it  were, 
Head  foremost  in  the  canopies.     He  stoopt, 
And  drawing  back  the  damask  folds,  beheld 
His  master,  a  grim  torso,  lying  dead. 

As  in  some  breathless  wilderness  at  night 
A  leopard,  pinioned  by  a  falling  tree, 
Shrieks,  and  the  echoes,  mimicking  the  cry, 
Repeat  it  in  a  thousand  different  keys 
By  lonely  heights  and  unimagined  caves  : 
So  shrieked  Bagoas,  and  so  his  cry  was  caught 
And  voiced  along  the  vast  Assyrian  lines, 
And  buffeted  among  the  hundred  hills. 
Then  ceased  the  tumult  sudden  as  it  rose, 
And  a  great  silence  fell  upon  the  camps, 
And  all  the  people  stood  like  blocks  of  stone 
In  some  deserted  quarry :  then  a  voice 
Blown  through  a  trumpet  clamored :  He  is  dead ! 
The  Prince  is  dead!     The  Hebrew  witch  hath  slain 
Prince  Holofernes  !     Fly,  Assyrians,  fly  ! 

As  from  its  lair  the  mad  tornado  leaps, 


JUDITH.  57 

And,  seizing  on  the  yellow  desert  sands, 

Hurls  them  in  swirling  masses,  cloud  on  cloud : 

So,  at  the  sounding  of  that  baleful  voice, 

A  panic  seized  the  mighty  Assur  hosts, 

And  flung  them  from  their  places.     With  wild 

shouts 

Across  the  hills  in  pale  dismay  they  fled, 
Trampling  the  sick  and  wounded  under  foot, 
Leaving  their  tents,  their  camels,  and  their  arms, 
Their  horses,  and  their  gilded  chariots. 
Then  with  a  dull  metallic  clang  the  gates 
Of  Bethulia  opened,  and  from  each 
A  sea  of  spears  surged  down  the, arid  hills 
And  broke  remorseless  on  the  flying  foe,  — 
Now  hemmed  them  in  upon  a  river's  bank, 
Now  drove  them  shrieking  down  a  precipice, 
Now  in  the  mountain-passes  slaughtered  them, 
Until  the  land,  for  many  a  weary  league, 
Was  red,  as  in  the  sunset,  with  their  blood. 
And  other  cities,  when  they  saw  the  rout 
Of  Holofernes,  burst  their  gates,  and  joined 
With  trump  and  banner  in  the  mad  pursuit. 
Three  days  before  those  unrelenting  spears 
The  cohorts  fled,  but  on  the  fourth  they  past 
Beyond  Damascus  into  their  own  land. 


5  8  JUDITH. 

So,  by  God's  grace  and  this  one  woman's  hand, 
The  tombs  and  temples  of  the  Just  were  saved ; 
And  evermore  throughout  fair  Israel 
The  name  of  Judith  meant  all  noblest  things 
In  thought  and  deed ;  and  Judith's  life  was  rich 
"With  that  content  the  world  takes  not  away. 
And  far-off  kings,  enamored  of  her  fame, 
Bluff  princes,  dwellers  by  the  salt  sea-sands, 
Sent  caskets  most  laboriously  carved, 
And  cloths  of  gold,  and  papyrus  scrolls,  whereon 
Was  writ  their  passion ;  then  themselves  did  come 
With  spicy  caravans,  in  purple  state, 
To  seek  regard  from  her  imperial  eyes. 
But  she  remained  unwed,  and  to  the  end 
Walked  with  the  angels  in  her  widow's  weeds. 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK. 
A,  D.  .1200. 

HE  Friar  Jerome,  for  some  slight  sin, 
Done  in  his  youth,  was  struck  with  woe. 
<  When  I  am  dead/  quoth  Friar  Jerome, 

'  Surely,  I  think  my  soul  will  go 

Shuddering  through  the  darkened  spheres, 

Down  to  eternal  fires  below ! 

I  shall  not  dare  from  that  dread  place 

To  lift  mine  eyes  to  Jesus'  face, 

Nor  Mary's,  as  she  sits  adored 

At  the  feet  of  Christ  the  I$>rd. 

Alas !  December  's  all  too  brief 

For  me  to  hope  to  wipe  away 

The  memory  of  my  sinful  May ! ' 

And  Friar  Jerome  was  full  of  grief, 


62  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

That  April  evening,  as  he  lay 
On  the  straw  pallet  in  his  cell. 
He  scarcely  heard  the  curfew-bell 
Calling  the  brotherhood  to  prayer; 
But  he  arose,  for  't  was  his  care 
Nightly  to  feed  the  hungry  poor 
That  crowded  to  the  Convent  door. 

His  choicest  duty  it  had  been  : 
But  this  one  night  it  weighed  him  down. 
« "What  work  for  an  immortal  soul, 
To  feed  and  clothe  some  lazy  clown ! 
Is  there  no  action  worth  my  mood, 
No  deed  of  daring,  high  and  pure, 
That  shall,  when  I  am  dead,  endure, 
A  well-spring  of  perpetual  good  ? ' 

And  straight  he  thought  of  those  great  tomes 
With  clamps  of  gold,  —  the  Convent's  boast,  — 
How  they  endured,  while  kings  and  realms 
Past  into  darkness  and  were  lost ; 
How  they  had  stood  from  age  to  age, 
Clad  in  their  yellow  vellum-mail, 
'Gainst  which  the  Paynim's  godless  rage, 


FRIAR  JEROMES  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK.  63 

The  Vandal's  fire,  could  naught  avail : 
Though  heathen  sword-blows  fell  like  hail, 
Though  cities  ran  with  Christian  blood, 
Imperishable  they  had  stood ! 
They  did  not  seem  like  books  to  him, 
But  Heroes,  Martyrs,  Saints,  —  themselves 
The  things  they  told  of,  not  mere  books 
Banged  grimly  on  the  oaken  shelves. 

To  those  dim  alcoves,  far  withdrawn, 
He  turned  with  measured  steps  and  slow, 
Trimming  his  lantern  as  he  went ; 
And  there,  among  the  shadows,  bent 
Above  one  ponderous  folio, 
With  whose  miraculous  text  were  blent 
Seraphic  faces  :  Angels,  crowned 
With  rings  of  melting  amethyst ; 
Mute,  patient  Martyrs,  cruelly  bound 
To  blazing  fagots  ;  here  and  there, 
Some  bold,  serene  Evangelist, 
Or  Mary  in  her  sunny  hair : 
And  here  and  there  from  out  the  words 
A  brilliant  tropic  bird  took  flight ; 
And  through  the  margins  many  a  vine 


64  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

Went  wandering,  —  roses,  red  and  white, 
Tulip,  wind-flower,  and  columbine 
Blossomed.     To  his  believing  mind 
These  things  were  real,  and  the  wind, 
Blown  through  the  mullioned  window,  took 
Scent  from  the  lilies  in  the  book. 

'  Santa  Maria ! '  cried  Friar  Jerome, 
'  Whatever  man  illumined  this, 
Though  he  were  steeped  heart-deep  in  sin, 
Was  worthy  of  unending  bliss,  .. 

And  no  doubt  hath  it !     Ah !  dear  Lord, 
Might  I  so  beautify  Thy  Word ! 
What  sacristan,  the  convents  through, 
Transcribes  with  such  precision  ?  who 
Does  such  initials  as  I  do  ? 
Lo !  I  will  gird  me  to  this  work, 
And  save  me,  ere  the  one  chance  slips. 
On  smooth,  clean  parchment  I  '11  engross 
The  Prophet's  fell  Apocalypse ; 
And  as  I  write  from  day  to  day, 
Perchance  my  sins  will  pass  away.' 

So  Friar  Jerome  began  his  Book. 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK.  65 

From  break  of  dawn  till  curfew-chime 

He  bent  above  the  lengthening  page, 

Like  some  rapt  poet  o'er  his  rhyme. 

He  scarcely  paused  to  tell  his  beads, 

Except  at  night ;  and  then  he  lay 

And  tost,  unrestful,  on  the  straw, 

Impatient  for  the  coming  day,  — 

"Working  like  one  who  feels,  perchance, 

That,  ere  the  longed-for  goal  be  won, 

Ere  Beauty  bare  her  perfect  breast, 

Black  Death  may  pluck  him  from  the  sun. 

At  intervals  the  busy  brook, 

Turning  the  mill-wheel,  caught  his  ear ; 

And  through  the  grating  of  the  cell 

He  saw  the  honeysuckles  peer ; 

And  knew  't  was  summer,  that  the  sheep 

In  fragrant  pastures  lay  asleep ; 

And  felt,  that,  somehow,  God  was  near. 

In  his  green  pulpit  on  the  elm, 

The  robin,  abbot  of  that  wood, 

Held  forth  by  times  ;  and  Friar  Jerome 

Listened,  and  smiled,  and  understood. 

While  summer  wrapt  the  blissful  land, 
5 


66  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

What  joy  it  was  to  labor  so, 
To  see  the  long-tressed  Angels  grow 
Beneath  the  cunning  of  his  hand, 
Vignette  and  tail-piece  deftly  wrought ! 
And  little  recked  he  of  the  poor 
That  missed  him  at  the  Convent  door ; 
Or,  thinking  of  them,  put  the  thought 
Aside.     <  I  feed  the  souls  of  men 
Henceforth,  and  not  their  bodies  ! '  —  yet 
Their  sharp,  pinched  features,  now  and  then, 
Stole  in  between  him  and  his  Book, 
And  filled  him  with  a  vague  regret. 

Now  on  that  region  fell  a  blight : 
The  corn  grew  cankered  in  its  sheath ; 
And  from  the  verdurous  uplands  rolled 
A  sultry  vapor  fraught  with  death,  — 
A  poisonous  mist,  that,  like  a  pall, 
Hung  black  and  stagnant  over  all. 
Then  came  the  sickness,  —  the  malign 
Green-spotted  terror,  called  the  Pest, 
That  took  the  light  from  loving  eyes, 
And  made  the  young  bride's  gentle  breast 
A  fatal  pillow.     Ah !  the  woe, 


FRIAR  JER  OME  S  BE  A  UTIF  UL  BOOK.  67 

The  crime,  the  madness  that  befell ! 
In  one  short  night  that  vale  became 
More  foul  than  Dante's  inmost  hell. 
Men  curst  their  wives ;  and  mothers  left 
Their  nursing  babes  alone  to  die, 
And  wantoned,  singing,  through  the  streets, 
With  shameless  brow  and  frenzied  eye ; 
And  senseless  clowns,  not  fearing  God,  — 
Such  power  the  spotted  fever  had,  — 
Razed  Cragwood  Castle  on  the  hill, 
Pillaged  the  wine-bins,  and  went  mad. 
And  evermore  that  dreadful  pall 
Of  mist  hung  stagnant  over  all : 
By  day,  a  sickly  light  broke  through 
The  heated  fog,  on  town  and  field; 
By  night  the  moon,  in  anger,  turned 
Against  the  earth  its  mottled  shield. 

Then  from  the  Convent,  two  and  two, 
The  Prior  chanting  at  their  head, 
The  monks  went  forth  to  shrive  the  sick, 
And  give  the  hungry  grave  its  dead,  — 
Only  Jerome,  he  went  not  forth, 
But  hiding  in  his  dusty  nook, 


68  LEGENDS  AND  L  TRIGS. 

'  Let  come  what  will,  I  must  illume 
The  last  ten  pages  of  my  Book  ! ' 
He  drew  his  stool  before  the  desk, 
And  sat  him  down,  distraught  and  wan, 
To  paint  his  darling  masterpiece, 
The  stately  figure  of  Saint  John. 
He  sketched  the  head  with  pious  care, 
Laid  in  the  tint,  Avhen,  powers  of  Grace ! 
He  found  a  grinning  Death's-head  there, 
And  not  the  grand  Apostle's  face ! 

Then  up  he  rose  with  one  long  cry : 
'  'T  is  Satan's  self  does  this,'  cried  he, 
1  Because  I  shut  and  barred  my  heart 
When  Thou  didst  loudest  call  to  me ! 

0  Lord,  Thou  know'st  the  thoughts  of  men, 
Thou  know'st  that  I  did  yearn  to  make 
Thy  Word  more  lovely  to  the  eyes 

Of  sinful  souls,  for  Christ  his  sake ! 
Nathless,  I  leave  the  task  undone  : 

1  give  up  all  to  follow  Thee,  — 
Even  like  him  who  gave  his  nets 
To  winds  and  waves  by  Galilee  ! ' 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK.  69 

Which  said,  he  closed  the  precious  Book 
In  silence  with  a  reverent  hand ; 
And,  drawing  his  cowl  about  his  face, 
"Went  forth  into  the  Stricken  Land. 
And  there  was  joy  in  heaven  that  day,  — 
More  joy  o'er  this  forlorn  old  friar 
Than  over  fifty  sinless  men 
Who  never  struggled  with  desire ! 

What  deeds  he  did  in  that  dark  town, 
What  hearts  he  soothed  with  anguish  torn, 
What  weary  ways  of  woe  he  trod, 
Are  written  in  the  Book  of  God, 
And  shall  be  read  at  Judgment  Morn. 
The  weeks  crept  on,  when,  one  still  day, 
God's  awful  presence  filled  the  sky, 
And  that  black  vapor  floated  by, 
And,  lo !  the  sickness  past  away. 
With  silvery  clang,  by  thorpe  and  town, 
The  bells  made  merry  in  their  spires, 
Men  kissed  each  other  on  the  street, 
And  music  piped  to  dancing  feet 
The  livelong  night,  by  roaring  fires ! 


70  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

Then  Friar  Jerome,  a  wasted  shape, — 
For  he  had  taken  the  Plague  at  last,  — 
Rose  up,  and  through  the  happy  town, 
And  through  the  wintry  woodlands,  past 
Into  the  Convent.     What  a  gloom 
Sat  brooding  in  each  desolate  room ! 
What  silence  in  the  corridor ! 
For  of  that  long,  innumerous  train 
Which  issued  forth  a  month  before, 
Scarce  twenty  had  come  back  again ! 

Counting  his  rosary  step  by  step, 
With  a  forlorn  and  vacant  air, 
Like  some  unshriven  churchyard  thing, 
The  Friar  crawled  up  the  mouldy  stair 
To  his  damp  cell,  that  he  might  look 
Once  more  on  his  beloved  Book. 

And  there  it  lay  upon  the  stand, 
Open !  —  he  had  not  left  it  so. 
He  grasped  it,  with  a  cry ;  for,  lo  ! 
He  saw  that  some  angelic  hand, 
While  he  was  gone,  had  finished  it ! 
There  't  was  complete,  as  he  had  planned ! 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK. 

There,  at  the  end,  stood  jFfntS,  writ 
And  gilded  as  no  man  could  do,  — 
Not  even  that  pious  anchoret, 
Bilfrid,  the  wonderful,  —  nor  yet 
The  miniatore  Ethelwold,  — 
Nor  Durham's  Bishop,  who  of  old 
(England  still  hoards  the  priceless  leaves) 
Did  the  Four  Gospels  all  in  gold. 
And  Friar  Jerome  nor  spoke  nor  stirred, 
But,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  that  word, 
He  past  from  sin  and  want  and  scorn ; 
And  suddenly  the  chapel-bells 
Eang  in  the  holy  Christmas-Morn ! 

In  those  wild  wars  which  racked  the  land 
Since  then,  and  kingdoms  rent  in  twain, 
The  Friar's  Beautiful  Book  was  lost,  — 
That  miracle  of  hand  and  brain  : 
Yet,  though  its  leaves  were  torn  and  tost, 
The  volume  was  not  writ  in  vain ! 


LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 
GARNAUT    HALL. 


?|ERE  or  hereafter  ?     In  the  body  here, 
Or  in  the  soul  hereafter,  do  we  writhe, 
Atoning  for  the  malice  of  our  lives  ? 
Of  the  uncounted  millions  that  have  died, 
Not  one  has  slipped  the  napkin  from  his  chin 
And  loosed  the  jaw  to  tell  us  :  even  he, 
The  intrepid  Captain,  who  gave  life  to  find 
A  doubtful  way  through  clanging  worlds  of  ice,  — 
A  fine  inquisitive  spirit,  you  would  think, 
One  to  cross-question  Fate  complacently, 
Less  for  his  own  sake  than  for  Science's,  — 
Not  even  he,  with  his  rich  gathered  lore, 
Returns  from  that  dark  journey  down  to  death. 
Here  or  hereafter  ?     Only  this  I  know, 
That,  whatsoever  happen  afterwards, 
Some  men  do  penance  on  this  side  the  grave. 
Thus  Regnald  Garnaut  for  his  cruel  heart. 

Owner  and  lord  was  he  of  Garnaut  Hall, 
A  relic  of  the  Norman  conquerors,  — 


GARNAUT  HALL. 


73 


A  quaint,  rook-haunted  pile  of  masonry, 
From  whose  top  battlement,  a  windy  height, 
Regnald  could  view  his  twenty  prosperous  farms; 
His  creaking  mill,  that,  perched  upon  a  cliff, 
With  outspread  wings  seemed  ever  taking  flight ; 
The  red-roofed  cottages,  the  high-walled  park, 
The  noisy  aviary,  and,  nearer  by, 
The  snow-white  Doric  parsonage,  —  all  his  own. 
And  all  his  own  were  chests  of  antique  plate, 
Horses  and  hounds  and  falcons,  curious  books, 
Chain-armor,  helmets,  Gobelin  tapestry, 
And  half  a  mile  of  painted  ancestors. 
Lord  of  these  things,  he  wanted  one  thing  more, 
Not  having  which,  all  else  to  him  was  dross. 

For  Agnes  Vail,  the  curate's  only  child,  — 
A  little  Saxon  wild-flower  that  had  grown 
Unheeded  into  beauty  day  by  day, 
And  much  too  delicate  for  this  rude  world,  — 
With  that  intuitive  wisdom  of  the  pure, 
Saw  that  he  loved  her  beauty,  not  herself, 
And  shrank  from  him,  and  when  he  came  to  speech 
Parried  his  meaning  with  a  woman's  wit. 
And  Regnald's  tender  vanity  was  hurt. 


74 


LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 


'  Why,  then/  snarled  he,  *  if  I  had  asked  the  Que< 
To  pick  me  some  fair  woman  from  the  Court, 
'T  were  but  the  asking.     A  blind  curate's  girl, 
It  seems,  is  somewhat  difficult,  —  must  have, 
To  feed  her  pride,  our  coronet  withal ! ' 
And  Agnes  from  that  day  avoided  him, 
Clinging  more  closely  to  the  old  man's  side ; 
And  in  the  chapel  never  raised  an  eye, 
But  knelt  there  like  a  mediaeval  saint, 
Her  holiness  her  buckler  and  her  shield,  — 
That,  and  the  golden  floss  of  her  long  hair. 

And  Regnald  felt  that  somehow  he  was  foiled,  — 
Foiled,  but  not  beaten.     He  would  have  his  way. 
Meanwhile  he  chafed ;  but  shortly  after  this 
Regnald  received  the  sorest  hurt  of  all. 
For,  one  eve,  lounging  idly  in  the  close, 
Watching  the  windows  of  the  parsonage, 
He  heard  low  voices  in  the  alder-trees, 
Voices  he  knew,  and  one  that  sweetly  said, 
'  Thine  ! '  and  he  paused  with  choking  heart,  and 

saw 

Eustace,  his  brother,  and  fair  Agnes  Vail 
In  the  soft  moonrise  lingering  with  claspt  hands. 


GARNAUT  HALL.  75 

The  two  past  on,  and  Regnald  hid  himself 
Among  the  brushwood,  where  his  vulpine  eyes 
Dilated  in  the  darkness  as  they  past. 
There,  in  the  dark,  he  lay  a  bitter  hour 
Gnawing  his  nails,  and  then  arose  unseen 
And  crept  away  with  murder  in  his  soul. 

Eustace !  curse  on  him,  with  his  handsome  eyes  ! 
Regnald  had  envied  Eustace  many  a  day, 
Envied  his  fame,  and  that  exceeding  grace 
And  courtliness  which  he  had  learned  at  Court 
Of  Sidney,  Raleigh,  Essex,  and  the  rest : 
For  when  their  father,  lean  Sir  Egbert,  died, 
Eustace,  whose  fortune  dangled  at  his  thigh,  — 
A  Damask  blade,  —  had  hastened  to  the  Court 
To  line  his  purse,  perchance  to  build  a  name ; 
And  catching  there  the  passion  of  the  time, 
He,  with  a  score  of  doughty  Devon  lads, 
Sailed  with  bold  Drake  into  the  Spanish  seas  ; 
Returning  whence,  with  several  ugly  scars,  — 
Which  made  him  lovelier  in  women's  eyes,  — 
And  many  a  chest  of  ingots,  —  not  the  less 
These  latter  made  him  lovely,  —  sunned  himself, 
Sometimes  at  Court,  sometimes  at  Garnaut  Hall, — 


7 6  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

At  Court,  by  favor  of  the  Virgin  Queen, 
For  great  Elizabeth  had  smiled  on  him. 

So  Regnald,  who  was  neither  good  nor  brave 
Nor  graceful,  liked  not  Eustace  from  the  start, 
And  this  night  hated  him.     With  angry  brows, 
He  sat  in  a  bleak  chamber  of  the  Hall, 
His  fingers  toying  with  his  poniard's  point 
Abstractedly.     Three  times  the  ancient  clock, 
Bolt-upright  like  a  mummy  in  its  case, 
Doled  out  the  hour :  at  length  the  round  red  moon, 
Rising  above  the  sombre  walnut-trees, 
Looked  in  on  Regnald  nursing  his  dark  thought, 
Looked  in  on  the  stiff  portraits  on  the  wall, 
And  dead  Sir  Egbert's  empty  coat-of-mail. 

A  quick  step  sounded  on  the  gravel-walk, 
And  then  came  Eustace,  humming  a  sea-song, 
Of  how  the  Grace  of  Devon,  with  ten  guns, 
And  Master  Raleigh  on  the  quarter-deck, 
Bore  down  and  tackled  the  great  galleon, 
Madre  de  Dios,  raked  her  fore  and  aft, 
And  took  her  bullion,  —  singing,  light  at  heart, 
His  first  love's  first  kiss  warm  upon  his  lip. 


GARNAUT  HALL.  77 

Straight  onward  came  young  Eustace  to  his  death ! 
For  hidden  behind  the  arras  near  the  stair 
Stood  Regnald,  like  the  Daemon  in  the  play, 
Grasping  his  rapier  part-way  down  the  blade 
To  strike  the  foul  blow  with  its  heavy  hilt. 
Straight  on  came  Eustace,  —  blithely  ran  the  song, 
'  Old  England's  darlings  are  her  hearts  of  oak.' 
The  lights  were  out,  and  not  a  soul  astir, 
Or  else  the  dead  man's  scabbard,  as  it  clashed 
Against  the  marble  pavement  when  he  fell, 
Had  brought  a  witness.     Not  a  breath  or  sound, 
Only  the  sad  wind  wailing  in  the  tower, 
Only  the  mastiff  growling  in  his  sleep, 
Outside  the  gate,  and  pawing  at  his  dream. 

Now  in  a  wing  of  that  old  gallery, 
Hung  with  the  relics  of  forgotten  feuds, 
A  certain  door,  which  none  but  Regnald  knew, 
"Was  fashioned  like  the  panels  of  the  wall, 
And  so  concealed  by  carven  grapes  and  flowers 
A  man  could  search  for  it  a  dozen  years 
And  swear  it  was  not,  though  his  touch  had  been 
Upon  the  very  panel  where  it  was. 
The  secret  spring  that  opened  it  unclosed 


78  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

An  inner  door  of  iron-studded  oak, 

Guarding  a  narrow  chamber,  where,  perchance, 

Some  bygone  lord  of  Garnaut  Hall  had  hid 

His  threatened  treasure,  or,  most  like,  bestowed 

Some  too  adventurous  antagonist. 

Sealed  in  the  compass  of  that  stifling  room, 

A  man  might  live,  at  best,  but  half  an  hour. 

Hither  did  Regnald  bear  his  brother's  corse 
And  set  it  down.     Perhaps  he  paused  to  gaze 
A  moment  on  the  quiet  moonlit  face, 
The  face  yet  beautiful  with  new-told  love ! 

Perhaps  his  heart  misgave  him,  —  or,  perhaps 

Now,  whether  't  was  some  dark  avenging  Hand, 
Or  whether  't  was  some  fatal  freak  of  wind, 
We  may  not  know,  but  suddenly  the  door 
Without  slammed  to,  and  there  was  Regnald  shut 
Beyond  escape,  for  on  the  inner  side 
Was  neither  spring  nor  bolt  to  set  him  free ! 

Mother  of  Mercy !  what  were  a  whole  life 
Of  pain  and  penury  and  conscience-smart 
To  that  half-hour  of  Regnald's  with  his  Dead  ? 


GARNAUT  HALL.  79 

—  The  joyous  sun  rose  over  the  white  cliffs 
Of  Devon,  sparkled  through  the  walnut-trees, 
And  broke  the  death-like  slumber  of  the  Hall. 
The  keeper  fetched  their  breakfast  to  the  hounds ; 
The  smart,  young  ostler  whistled  in  the  stalls ; 
The  pretty  housemaid  tripped  from  room  to  room ; 
And  grave  and  grand  behind  his  master's  chair, 
But  wroth  within  to  have  the  partridge  spoil, 
The  senile  butler  waited  for  his  lord. 
But  neither  Regnald  nor  young  Eustace  came. 
And  when  't  was  found  that  neither  slept  at  Hall 
That  night,  their  couches  being  still  unprest, 
The  servants  stared.     And  as  the  day  wore  on, 
And  evening  came,  and  then  another  day, 
And  yet  another,  till  a  week  had  gone, 
The  wonder  spread,  and  riders  sent  in  haste 
Scoured   the   country,    dragged   the   neighboring 

streams,     t 
Tracked  wayward  footprints  to  the  great  chalk 

bluffs, 

But  found  not  Regnald,  lord  of  Garnaut  Hall. 
The  place  that  knew  him  knew  him  never  more. 

The  red  leaf  withered  and  the  green  leaf  grew. 


8o  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

And  Agnes  Vail,  the  little  Saxon  rose, 
Waxed  pale  and  paler,  till  the  country-folk 
Half  guessed  her  fate  was  somehow  intertwined 
With  that  dark  house.     When  her  pure  soul  had 

past,  — 

Just  as  a  perfume  floats  from  out  the  world,  — 
Wild  tales  were  told  of  how  the  brothers  loved 
The  self-same  maid,  whom  neither  one  would  wed 
Because  the  other  loved  her  as  his  life  ; 
And  that  the  two,  at  midnight,  in  despair, 
From  one  sheer  cliff  plunged  headlong  in  the  sea. 
And  when,  at  night,  the  hoarse  east-wind  rose  high, 
Eattled  the  lintels,  clamoring  at  the  door, 
The  children  huddled  closer  round  the  hearth 
And  whispered  very  softly  with  themselves, 
<  That 's  Master  Regnald  looking  for  his  Bride ! ' 

The  red  leaf  withered  and  the  green  leaf  grew. 
Decay  and  dolor  settled  on  the  Hall. 
The  wind  went  howling  in  the  dismal  rooms, 
Rustling  the  arras ;  and  the  wainscot-mouse 
Gnawed  through  the  mighty  Garnauts  on  the  wall, 
And  made  a  lodging  for  her  glossy  young 
In  dead  Sir  Egbert's  empty  coat-of-mail ; 


GARNAUT  HALL.  Si 

The  griffon  dropt  from  off  the  blazoned  shield ; 
The  stables  rotted ;  and  a  poisonous  vine  , 
Stretched  its  rank  nets  across  the  lonely  lawn. 
For  no  one  went  there,  —  't  was  a  haunted  spot. 
A  legend  killed  it  for  a  kindly  home,  — 
A  grim  estate,  which  every  heir  in  turn 
Left  to  the  orgies  of  the  wind  and  rain, 
The  newt,  the  toad,  the  spider,  and  the  mouse. 

The  red  leaf  withered  and  the  green  leaf  grew. 
And  once,  't  is  said,  the  Queen  reached  out  her 

hand  • 

And  let  it  rest  on  Cecil's  velvet  sleeve, 
And  spoke  :  '  I  prithee,  Cecil,  tell  us  now, 
Was  't  ever  known  what  happened  to  those  men, — 
Those  Garnauts  1  —  Were  they  never,  never  found  V 
The  weasel  face  had  fain  looked  wise  for  her, 
But  no  one  of  that  century  ever  knew. 

The  red  leaf  withered  and  the  green  leaf  grew. 
And  in  that  year  King  James  the  Second  died 
The  land  changed  owners,  and  the  new-made  lord 
Sent  down  his  workmen  to  revamp  the  Hall 
And  make  the  waste  place  blossom  as  the  rose 
6 


82  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

By  chance,  a  workman  in  the  eastern  wing-, 
Fitting  the  cornice,  stumbled  on  a  door, 
Which  creaked,  and  seemed  to  open  of  itself; 
And  there  within  "the  chamber,  on  the  flags, 
He  saw  two  figures  in  outlandish  guise 
Of  hose  and  doublet,  —  one  stretched   out   full- 
length, 

And  one  half  fallen  forward  on  his  breast, 
Holding  the  other's  hand  with  vice-like  grip : 
One  face  was  calm,  the  other  sad  as  death, 
"With  something  in  it  of  a  pleading  look, 
As  might  befall  a  man  that  dies  at  prayer. 
Amazed,  the  workman  hallooed  to  his  mates 
To  see  the  wonder ;  but  ere  they  could  come, 
The  figures  crumbled  and  were  shapeless  dust. 


THE  LADY  OF  CASTELNOIRE.        83 


THE  LADY  OF  CASTELNOIRE. 

A.  D.  1700. 

1. 
RETAGNE  had  not  her  peer.     In  the 

Province  far  or  near 

There  were  never  such  brown  tresses, 
such  a  faultless  hand  : 
She  had  youth,  and  she  had  gold,  she  had  jewels 

all  untold, 

And  many  a  lover  bold  wooed  the  Lady  of  the 
Land. 

2. 

But  she,  with  queenliest  grace,  bent  low  her  pallid 

face, 
And  <  Woo  me  not,  for  Jesus'  sake,  fair  gentlemen,' 

she  said. 
If  they  woo'd,  then  —  with   a  frown  she  would 

strike  their  passion  down  : 
She  might  have  wed  a  crown  to  the  ringlets  on 

her  head. 


84  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

3. 

From  the  dizzy  castle-tips,  hour  by  hour  she 
watched  the  ships, 

Like  sheeted  phantoms  coming  and  going  ever- 
more, 

While  the  twilight  settled  down  on  the  sleepy  sea- 
port town, 

On  the  gables  peaked  and  brown,  that  had  shel- 
tered kings  of  yore. 

4. 

Dusky  belts  of  cedar-wood  partly  claspt  the  wi- 
dening flood ; 

Like  a  knot  of  daisies  lay  the  hamlets  on  the  hill ; 

In  the  hostelry  below  sparks  of  light  would  come 
and  go, 

And  faint  voices,  strangely  low,  from  the  garru- 
lous old  mill. 

5. 
Here  the  land  in  grassy  swells  gently  broke ;  there 

sunk  in  dells 
With  mosses  green  and  purple,  and  prongs  of  rock 

and  peat ; 


THE  LADY  OF  CASTELNOIRE.        85 

Here,  in  statue-like  repose,  an  old  wrinkled  moun- 
tain rose, 

With  its  hoary  head  in  snows,  and  wild-roses  at  its 
feet. 


And  so  oft  she  sat  alone  in  the  turret  of  gray 

stone, 
And  looked  across  the  moorland,  so  woful,  to  the 

sea, 
That  there  grew  a  village-cry,  how  her  cheek  did 

lose  its  dye, 
As  a  ship,  once,  sailing  by,  faded  on  the  sapphire 

lea. 

7. 

Her  few  walks  led  all  one  way,  and  all  ended  at 

the  gray 
And  ragged,  jagged  rocks  that  fringe  the  lonesome 

beach ; 
There  she  would  stand,  the  Sweet !  with  the  white 

surf  at  her  feet, 
While  above  her  wheeled  the  fleet  sparrow-hawk 

with  startling  screech. 


86  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

8. 
And  she  ever  loved  the  sea,  —  God's  half-uttered 

mystery,  — 
"With  its  million  lips  of  shells,  its  never-ceasing 

roar: 
And  't  was  well  that,  when  she  died,  they  made  her 

a  grave  beside 
The  blue  pulses  of  the  tide,  by  the  towers  of  Cas- 

telnoire. 

9. 

Now,  one  chill  November  morn,  many  russet  au- 
tumns gone, 

A  strange  ship  with  folded  wings  lay  dozing  off 
the  lea; 

It  had  lain  throughout  the  night  with  its  wings  of 
murky  white 

Folded,  after  weary  flight,  —  the  worn  nursling  of 
the  sea. 

10. 
Crowds  of  peasants  flocked  the  sands ;  there  were 

tears  and  clasping  hands ; 
And  a  sailor  from  the  ship  stalked  through  the 

kirkvard  gate. 


THE  LADY  OF  CASTELNOIRE.        87 

Then  amid  the  grass  that  crept,  fading,  over  her 

who  slept, 
How  he  hid  his  face  and  wept,  crying,  Late,  alas! 

too  late! 

11. 

And  they  called  her  cold.  God  knows  ....  Un- 
derneath the  winter  snows 

The  invisible  hearts  of  flowers  grew  ripe  for  blos- 
soming ! 

And  the  lives  that  look  so  cold,  if  their  stories 
could  be  told, 

Would  seem  cast  in  gentler  mould,  would  seem 
full  of  love  and  spring. 


88  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

AMONTILLADO. 

VINTAGE,  1826. 
1. 

RAFTERS  black  with  smoke," 

White  with  sand  the  floor  is, 
Twenty  whiskered  Dons 
Calling  to  Dolores,  — 
Tawny  flower  of  Spain, 
Empress  of  the  larder, 
Keeper  of  the  wines 
In  this  old  posada. 

2. 

Hither,  light-of-foot, 

Dolores,  Hebe,  Circe  !  — 
Pretty  Spanish  girl, 

With  not  a  bit  of  mercy ! 
Here  I  'm  sad  and  sick, 

Faint  and  thirsty  very, 
And  she  does  n't  bring 

The  Amontillado  Sherry ! 


AMONTILLADO.  89 

3. 
Thank  you.     Breath  of  June  ! 

Now  my  heart  beats  freer : 
Kisses  for  your  hand, 

Amigita  mia ! 
You  shall  live  in  song, 

Ripe  and  warm  and  cheery, 
Mellowing  with  years, 

Like  Amontillado  Sherry. 


Evil  spirits,  fly ! 

Care,  hegone,  blue  dragon ! 
Only  shapes  of  joy 

Are  sculptured  on  the  flagon : 
Lyrics,  —  repartees,  — 

Kisses,  —  all  that 's  merry, 
Rise  to  touch  the  lip 

In  Amontillado  Sherry ! 

5. 

Here  be  worth  and  wealth, 
And  love,  the  arch  enchanter ; 

Here  the  golden  blood 

Of  saints,  in  this  decanter ! 


90  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

When  old  Charon  comes 
To  row  me  o'er  his  ferry, 

I  '11  bribe  him  with  a  case 
Of  Amontillado  Sherry ! 


While  the  earth  spins  round 

And  the  stars  lean  over, 
May  this  amber  sprite 

Never  lack  a  lover. 
Blessed  be  the  man 

Who  lured  her  from  the  berry, 
And  blest  the  girl  who  brings 

The  Amontillado  Sherry. 

7. 
What !  the  flagon's  dry? 

Hark,  old  Time's  confession,  — 
Both  hands  crost  at  XII., 

Owning  his  transgression ! 
Pray,  old  monk !  for  all 

Generous  souls  and  merry, 
May  they  have  their  fill 

Of  Amontillado  Sherry ! 


CASTLES.  91 


CASTLES. 

jJHERE  is  a  picture  in  my  brain 
That  only  fades  to  come  again,  — 
The  sunlight,  through  a  veil  of  rain 
To  leeward,  gilding 
A  narrow  stretch  of  brown  sea-sand, 
A  lighthouse  half  a  league  from  land, 
And  two  young  lovers,  hand  in  hand, 
A  castle-building. 

Upon  the  budded  apple-trees 

The  robins  sing  by  twos  and  threes, 

And  ever  at  the  faintest  breeze 

Down  drops  a  blossom ; 
And  ever  would  that  lover  be 
The  wind  that  robs  the  burgeoned  tree, 
And  lifts  the  soft  tress  daintily 

On  Beauty's  bosom. 

Ah,  gray  beard,  what  a  happy  thing 
It  was,  when  life  was  in  its  spring, 


92  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

To  peep  through  love's  betrothal  ring 

At  Fields  Elysian, 
To  move  and  breathe  in  magic  air, 
To  think  that  all  that  seems  is  fair,  — 
Ah,  ripe  young  mouth  and  golden  hair, 

Thou  pretty  vision ! 

Well,  well,  I  think  not  on  these  two 
But  the  old  wound  breaks  out  anew, 
And  the  old  dream,  as  if  't  were  true, 

In  my  heart  nestles ; 
Then  tears  come  welling  to  my  eyes 
For  yonder,  all  in  saintly  guise, 
As  't  were,  a  sweet  dead  woman  lies 

Upon  the  trestles ! 


ROBIN  BAD  FELLOW.  93 


ROBIN  BADFELLOW. 

OUR  bluish  eggs  all  in  the  moss  ! 

Soft-lined  home  on  the  cherry-bough ! 
Life  is  trouble,  and  love  is  loss,  — 
There  's  only  one  robin  now ! 

O  robin  up  in  the  cherry-tree, 

Singing  your  soul  away, 
Great  is  the  grief  befallen  me, 

And  how  can  you  be  so  gay  ? 

Long  ago  when  you  cried  in  the  nest, 

The  last  of  the  sickly  brood, 
Scarcely  a  pin-feather  warming  your  breast, 

Who  was  it  brought  you  food  ? 

Who  said,  '  Music,  come  fill  his  throat, 

Or  ever  the  May  be  fled  ? ' 
Who  was  it  loved  the  wee  sweet  note 

And  the  bosom's  sea-shell  red  ? 


94  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

Who  said,  '  Cherries,  grow  ripe  and  big, 
Black  and  ripe  for  this  bird  of  mine  ? ' 

How  little  bright-bosom  bends  the  twig, 
Sipping  the  black-heart's  wine ! 

Now  that  rny  days  and  nights  are  woe, 
Now  that  I  weep  for  love's  dear  sake,  - 

There  you  go  singing  away  as  though 
Never  a  heart  could  break ! 


THE  LILY  OF  LOCH-INE.  95 


THE  LILY   OF  LOCH-INE. 

SHE  was  very,  very;  fair, 
Like  a  Saint  in  her  blonde  hair,  • 
Like  Raphael's  Madonna, 

With  a  certain  shade  of  care 

And  a  glory  breaking  on  her ! 

In  the  kirkyard  let  her  lie, 
Let  the  thistles  and  the  burs 
Cover  up  the  twofold  life, 
The  sinless  life  and  hers. 
God  have  mercy  on  that  day 
When  the  grave  gives  up  the  Dead 
And  the  World  shall  pass  away. 

Now  Sir  Rohan  sails  the  sea, 
Loud  he  laughs  above  his  wine, 
And  he  never,  never  thinks 
Of  the  Lily  of  Loch-Ine. 
God  have  mercy  on  that  day 
When  the  grave  gives  up  the  Dead 
And  the  World  shall  pass  away. 


96 


LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 


DECEMBER. 

1863. 

NLY  the  sea  intoning, 
Only  the  wainscot-mouse, 
Only  the  wild  wind  moaning 


Over  the  lonely  house. 


Darkest  of  all  Decembers 
Ever  my  life  has  known, 
Sitting  here  by  the  embers, 
Stunned  and  helpless,  alone, — 

Dreaming  of  two  graves  lying 
Out  in  the  damp  and  chill ; 
One  where  the  buzzard,  flying, 
Pauses  at  Malvern  Hill : 

The  other,  —  alas  !  the  pillows 
Of  that  uneasy  bed 
Rise  and  fall  with  the  billows 
Over  our  sailor's  head. 


DECEMBER.  97 

Theirs  the  heroic  story, — 
Died,  by  frigate  and  town ! 
Theirs' the  Calm  and  the  Glory, 
Theirs  the  Cross  and  the  Crown. 

Mine  to  linger  and  languish 
Here  by  the  wintry  sea. 
Ah,  faint  heart !  in  thy  anguish, 
What  is  there  left  to  thee  ? 

Only  the  sea  intoning, 
Only  the  wainscot-mouse, 
Only  the  wild  wind  moaning 
Over  the  lonely  house. 


CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 


CLOTH  OF    GOLD. 

OU  ask  us  if  by  rule  or  no 
Our  many-colored  songs  are  wrought  ? 
Upon  the  cunning  loom  of  thought, 
We  weave  our  fancies,  so  and  so. 

The  busy  shuttle  comes  and  goes 

Across  the  rhymes,  and  deftly  weaves 
A  tissue  out  of  autumn  leaves, 

With  here  a  thistle,  there  a  rose. 


With  art  and  patience  thus  is  made 
The  poet's  perfect  Cloth  of  Gold : 
When  woven  so,  nor  moth  nor  mould 

Nor  time,  can  make  its  colors  fade. 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD. 


THE  CRESCENT  AND  THE  CROSS. 

jrjIND  was  my  friend  who,  in  the  Eastern 

land, 
Remembered  me  with  such  a  gracious 

hand, 

And  sent  this  Moorish  Crescent  which  has 
"Worn  on  the  haughty  bosom  of  a  queen. 

No  more  it  sinks  and  rises  in  unrest 
To  the  soft  music  of  her  heathen  breast ; 
No  barbarous  chief  shall  bow  before  it  more, 
No  turbaned  slave  shall  envy  and  adore ! 

I  place  beside  this  relic  of  the  Sun 

A  Cross  of  Cedar  brough^  from  Lebanon, 

Once  borne,  perchance,  by  some  pale  monk  who 

trod 
The  desert  to  Jerusalem,  —  and  his  God ! 

Here  do  they  lie,  two  symbols  of  two  creeds, 
Each  meaning  something  to  our  human  needs, 


THE  CRESCENT  AND  THE  CROSS.   103 

Both  stained  with  blood,  and  sacred  made  by  faith, 
By  tears,  and  prayers,  and  martyrdom,  and  death. 

That  for  the  Moslem  is,  but  this  for  me ! 
The  waning  Crescent  lacks  divinity  : 
It  gives  me  dreams  of  battles,  and  the  woes 
Of  women  shut  in  dim  seraglios. 

But  when  this  Cross  of  simple  wood  I  see, 
The  Star  of  Bethlehem  shines  again  for  me, 
And  glorious  visions  break  upon  my  gloom,  — 
The  patient  Christ,  and  Mary  at  the  Tomb ! 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD. 


THE   SHEIK'S   WELCOME. 


ECAUSE  thou  com'st,  a  weary  guest, 
Unto  my  tent,  I  bid  thee  rest. 
This  cruse  of  oil,  this  skin  of  wine, 


These  tamarinds  and  dates,  are  thine ; 

And  while  thou  eatest,  Medjid,  there, 

Shall  bathe  the  heated  nostrils  of  thy  mare. 

Illahil' Allah!     Even  so 
An  Arab  chieftain  treats  a  foe, 
Holds  him  as  one  without  a  fault 
Who  breaks  his  bread  and  tastes  his  salt ; 
And,  in  fair  battle,  strikes  him  dead 
With  the  same  pleasure  that  he  gives  him  bread ! 


THE  UNFORGIVEN.  105 


THE   UNFORGIVEN. 

HEAR  my  bed,  there,  hangs  the  picture 

jewels  could  not  buy  from  me : 
'T  is  a  Siren,  a  brown  Siren,  in  her  sea- 
weed drapery, 
Playing  on  a  lute  of  amber,  by  the  margin  of  a 


In  the  east,  the  rose  of  morning  seems  as  if 
't  would  blossom  soon, 

But  it  never,  never  blossoms,  in  this  picture ;  and 
the  moon 

Never  ceases  to  be  crescent,  and  the  June  is  al- 
ways June ! 

And  the  heavy-branched  banana  never  yields  its 

creamy  fruit ; 
In  the  citron-trees  are  nightingales  forever  stricken 

mute ; 
And  the  Siren  sits,  her  fingers  on  the  pulses  of 

the  lute. 


106  CLOTH  OF  GOLD. 

In  the  hushes  of  the  midnight,  when  the  helio- 
tropes grow  strong 

With  the  dampness,  I  hear  music,  —  hear  a  quiet, 
plaintive  song, — 

A  most  sad,  melodious  utterance,  as  of  some  im- 
mortal wrong,  — 

Like  the  pleading,  oft  repeated,   of  a  Soul  that 

pleads  in  vain, 
Of  a  damne'd  Soul  repentant,  that  would  fain  be 

pure  again !  — 
And  I  lie  awake  and  listen  to  the  music  of  her 

pain! 

And  whence  comes  this  mournful  music?  — 
whence,  unless  it  chance  to  be 

From  the  Siren,  the  brown  Siren,  in  her  sea- weed 
drapery, 

Playing  on  a  lute  of  amber,  by  the  margin  of  a 


DRESSING  THE  BRIDE. 


DRESSING   THE   BRIDE. 


A   FRAGMENT. 


107 


|0,  after  bath,  the  slave-girls  brought 
The  broidered  raiment  for  her  wear, 
The  misty  izar  from  Mosul, 


The  pearls  and  opals  for  her  hair, 
The  slippers  for  her  supple  feet, 
(Two  radiant  crescent  moons  they  were,) 
And  lavender,  and  spikenard  sweet, 
And  attars,  nedd,  and  richest  musk. 
When  they  had  finished  dressing  her, 
(The  eye  of  morn,  the  heart's  desire !) 
Like  one  pale  star  against  the  dusk, 
A  single  diamond  on  her  brow 
Trembled  with  its  imprisoned  fire ! 


io8  CLOTH  OF  GOLD. 

TWO  SONGS  FROM  THE  PERSIAN. 
I. 


CEASE,  sweet  music,  let  us  rest : 

Too  soon  the  hateful  light  is  born  ! 
Henceforth  let  day  be  counted  night, 
And  midnight  called  the  morn. 

O,  cease,  sweet  music,  let  us  rest : 

A  tearful,  languid  spirit  lies 

(Like  the  dim  scent  in  violets,) 

In  Zela's  gentle  eyes. 

There  is  a  sadness  in  sweet  sound 

That  quickens  tears.     O  music,  lest 
We  weep  with  thy  strange  sorrow,  cease ! 
Be  still,  and  let  us  rest. 


II. 

Ah !  sad  are  they  who  know  not  love, 
But,  far  from  passion's  tears  and  smiles, 


TWO  SONGS  FROM  THE  PERSIAN.  109 

Drift  down  a  moonless  sea,  beyond 
The  silvery  coasts  of  fairy  isles. 

And  sadder  they  whose  longing  lips 
Kiss  empty  air,  and  never  touch 
The  dear  warm  mouth  of  those  they  love,  — 
Waiting,  wasting,  suffering  much. 

But  clear  as  amber,  fine  as  musk, 
Is  life  to  those  who,  pilgrim-wise, 
Move  hand  in  hand  from  dawn  to  dusk, 
Each  morning  nearer  Paradise. 

O,  not  for  them  shall  angels  pray ! 
They  stand  in  everlasting  light, 
They  walk  in  Allah's  smile  by  day, 
And  nestle  in  his  heart  by  night. 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD. 


TIGER-LILIES. 

LIKE  not  lady-slippers, 

Nor  yet  the  sweet-pea  blossoms, 
Nor  yet  the  flaky  roses, 
Red,  or  white  as  snow ; 
I  like  the  chaliced  lilies, 
The  heavy  Eastern  lilies, 
The  gorgeous  tiger-lilies, 

That  in  our  garden  grow ! 

For  they  are  tall  and  slender ; 

Their  mouths  are  dashed  with  carmine 

And  when  the  wind  sweeps  by  them, 

On  their  emerald  stalks 
They  bend  so  proud  and  graceful,  — 
They  are  Circassian  women, 
The  favorites  of  the  Sultan, 

Adown  our  garden  walks ! 

And  when  the  rain  is  falling, 
I  sit  beside  the  window 


TIGER-LILIES. 

And  watch  them  glow  and  glisten, 
How  they  burn  and  glow  ! 

O  for  the  burning  lilies, 

The  tender  Eastern  lilies, 

The  gorgeous  tiger-lilies, 

That  in  our  garden  grow ! 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD. 


THE    SULTANA. 

I  the  draperies'  purple  gloom, 

In  the  gilded  chamber  she  stands, 
I  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  bosom's  bloom, 
And  the  white  of  her  jewelled  hands. 

Each  wandering  wind  that  blows 

By  the  lattice,  seems  to  bear 
From  her  parted  lips  the  scent  of  the  rose, 

And  the  jasmine  from  her  hair. 

Her  dark-browed  odalisques  lean 
To  the  fountain's  feathery  rain, 

And  a  parroquet,  by  the  broidered  screen, 
Dangles  its  silvery  chain. 

But  pallid,  luminous,  cold, 

Like  a  phantom  she  fills  the  place, 

Sick  to  the  heart,  in  that  cage  of  gold, 
With  her  sumptuous  disgrace  ! 


IT  WAS  A  KNIGHT  OF  ARAGON. 


IT  WAS  A  KNIGHT  OF  ARAGON. 

"  Fuerte  qual  azero  entre  annas, 
Y  qual  cera  entre  las  damas." 

1. 

f]T  was  a  Knight  of  Aragon, 
And  he  was  brave  to  see, 
His  helmet  and  his  hauberk, 
And  the  greaves  upon  his  knee. 
His  escuderos  rode  in  front, 

His  cavaliers  behind, 
With  staine'd  plumes  and  gonfalons, 
And  music  in  the  wind. 

2. 

It  was  the  maid  Prudencia, 

The  lily  of  Madrid, 
Who  watched  him  from  her  balcony, 

Among  the  jasmines  hid. 
1  O  Virgin  Mother ! '  quoth  the  Knight, 

« Is  that  the  daybreak  there  ? ' 
It  was  the  saintly  light  that  shone 

Above  the  maiden's  hair ! 


H4  CLOTH  OF  GOLD. 

3. 

Then  he  who  crost  the  Pyrenees 

To  fight  the  clogs  of  France, 
Grew  pale  with  love  for  her  whose  look 

Had  pierced  him  like  a  lance ; 
And  they  will  wed  the  morrow  morn  : 

Beat  softly,  watchful  stars  !  — 
And  mind  you,  gallant  cavaliers, 

How  Venus  conquers  Mars. 


WHEN  TEE  SULTAN,  ETC.          115 


WHEN  THE  SULTAN  GOES  TO  ISPAHAN. 


HEN  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
Goes  to  the  city  Ispahan, 
Even  before  he  gets  so  far 
As  the  place  where  the  clustered  palm-trees  are, 
At  the  last  of  the  thirty  palace-gates, 
The  pet  of  the  harem,  Rose-in-Bloom, 
Orders  a  feast  in  his  favorite  room,  — 
Glittering  squares  of  colored  ice, 
Sweetened  with  syrop,  tinctured  with  spice, 
Creams,  and  cordials,  and  sugared  dates, 
Syrian  apples,  Othmanee  quinces, 
Limes,  and  citrons,  and  apricots, 
And  wines  that  are  known  to  Eastern  princes ; 
And  Nubian  slaves,  with  smoking  pots 
Of  spiced  meats  and  costliest  fish 
And  all  that  the  curious  palate  could  wish, 
Pass  in  and  out  of  the  cedarn  doors : 
Scattered  over  mosaic  floors 
Are  anemones,  myrtles,  and  violets, 
And  a  musical  fountain  throws  its  jets 


Ii6  CLOTH  OF  GOLD. 

Of  a  hundred  colors  into  the  air. 
The  dusk  Sultana  loosens  her  hair, 
And  stains  with  the  henna-plant  the  tips 
Of  her  pearly  nails,  and  bites  her  lips 
Till  they  bloom  again,  —  but,  alas,  that  rose 
Not  for  the  Sultan  buds  and  blows ! 
Not  for  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
When  he  goes  to  the  city  Ispahan. 

Then  at  a  wave  of  her  sunny  hand, 
The  dancing-girls  of  Samarcand 
Float  in  like  mists  from  Fairy-land ! 
And  to  the  low  voluptuous  swoons 
Of  music  rise  and  fall  the  moons 
Of  their  full,  brown  bosoms.     Orient  blood 
Huns  in  their  veins,  shines  in  their  eyes : 
And  there,  in  this  Eastern  Paradise, 
Filled  with  the  fumes  of  sandal- wood, 
And  Khoten  musk,  and  aloes  and  mywh, 
Sits  Rose-in-Bloom  on  a  silk  divan, 
Sipping  the  wines  of  Astrakhan ; 
And  her  Arab  lover  sits  with  her. 
That's  when  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
Goes  to  the  city  Ispahan. 


WHEN  THE  S UL TAN,  ETC.          117 

Now,  when  I  see  an  extra  light, 
Flaming,  flickering  on  the  night 
From  my  neighbor's  casement  opposite, 
I  know  as  well  as  I  know  to  pray, 
I  know  as  well  as  a  tongue  can  say, 
That  the  innocent  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
Has  gone  to  the  city  Ispahan. 


nS 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD. 


HASCHEESH. 


1. 

THICKEN  with  thought,  I   staggered 

through  the  night; 
The  heavens  leaned  down  to  me  with 

splendid  fires ; 

The  south-wind  breathing  upon  unseen  lyres, 
Made  music  as  I  went ;  and  to  my  sight 
A  Palace  shaped  itself  against  the  skies : 
Great  sapphire-studded  portals  suddenly 
Opened  on  vast  Ionic  galleries 
Of  gold  and  porphyry,  and  I  could  see, 
Through  half-drawn  curtains  that  let  in  the  day, 
Dim  tropic  gardens  stretching  far  away ! 

2. 

Ah  !  what  a  wonder  seized  upon  my  soul, 
"When  from  that  structure  of  the  upper  airs 
I  saw  unfold  a  flight  of  crystal  stairs 

For  my  ascending Then  I  heard  the  roll 

Of  unseen  oceans  clashing  at  the  Pole 


HASCHEESH.  119 

A  terror  fell  upon  me  ....  a  vague  sense 
Of  near  calamity.     O,  lead  me  hence.! 
I  shrieked,  and  lo !  from  out  a  darkling  hole 
That  opened  at  my  feet,  crawled  after  me, 
Up  the  broad  staircase,  creatures  of  huge  size, 
Fanged,  warty  monsters,  with  their  lips  and  eyes 
Hung  with  slim  leeches  sucking  hungrily.  — 
Away,  vile  drug !  I  will  avoid  thy  spell, 
Honey  of  Paradise,  black  dew  of  Hell ! 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD. 


A    PKELUDE. 

[jASSAN  BEN  ABDUL  at  the  Ivory 

Gate 

Of  Bagdad  sat  and  chattered  in  the  sun, 
Like  any  magpie  chattered  to  himself, 
And  four  lank,  swarthy  Arab  boys  that  stopt 
A  gambling  game  with  peach-pits,  and  drew  near. 
Then  Iman  Khan,  the  friend  of  thirsty  souls, 
The  seller  of  pure  water,  ceased  his  cry, 
And  placed  his  water-skins  against  the  gate,  — 
They  looked  so  like  him,  with  their  sallow  checks 
Puffed  out  like  Iman's.     Then  a  eunuch  came 
And  swung  a  pack  of  sweetmeats  from  his  head, 
And  stood,  —  a  hideous  pagan  cut  in  jet. 
And  then  a  Jew,  whose  sandal-straps  were  red 
With  desert-dust,  limped,  cringing,  to  the  crowd,  — 
He,  too,  would  listen ;  and  close  after  him 
A  jeweller  that  glittered  like  his  shop  : 
Then  two  blind  mendicants,  who  wished  to  go 
Six  diverse  ways  at  once,  came  stumbling  by, 
But  hearing  Hassan  chatter,  sat  them  down. 


A  PRELUDE.  121 

And  if  the  Khaleef  had  been  riding  near, 
He  would  have  paused  to  listen  like  the  rest, 
For  Hassan's  fame  was  ripe  in  all  the  East. 
From  spicy  Cairo  to  far  Ispahan, 
From  Mecca  to  Damascus,  he  was  known, 
Hassan,  the  Arab  with  the  Singing  Heart. 
His  songs  were  sung  by  boatmen  on  the  Nile, 
By  Beddowee  maidens,  and  in  Tartar  camps, 
While  all  men  loved  him  as  they  love  their  eyes ; 
And  when  he  spake,  the  wisest,  next  to  him, 
Was  he  who  listened.     And  thus  Hassan  sung. 
—  And  I,  a  stranger,  lingering  in  Bagdad, 
Half  English  and  half  Arab,  by  my  beard ! 
Caught  at  the  gilded  epic  as  it  grew, 
And  for  my  Christian  brothers  wrote  it  down. 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD. 


A  TURKISH  LEGEND. 

CERTAIN  Pasha,  dead  five  thousand 

years, 
Once  from  his  harem  fled  in  sudden 

tears. 


And  had  this  sentence  on  the  city's  gate- 
Deeply  engraven,  '  Only  God  is  great.' 

So  these  four  words  above  the  city's  noise 
Hung  like  the  accents  of  an  angel's  voice ; 

And  evermore,  from  the  high  barbacan, 
Saluted  each  returning  caravan. 

Lost  is  that  city's  glory.     Every  gust 

Lifts,  with  crisp  leaves,  the  unknown  Pasha's  dust. 

And  all  is  ruin,  — save  one  wrinkled  gate 
Whereon  is  written,  '  Only  God  is  great.' 


INTERLUDES. 


INTERLUDES. 


THE  FADED   VIOLET. 

HAT  thought  is  folded  in  thy  leaves ! 
What  tender  thought,  what  speechless 

pain ! 

I  hold  thy  faded  lips  to  mine, 
Thou  darling  of  the  April  rain ! 

I  hold  thy  faded  lips  to  mine, 
Though  scent  and  azure  tint  are  fled,  — 
O  dry,  mute  lips !  ye  are  the  type 
Of  something  in  me  cold  and  dead  : 

'  Of  something  wilted  like  thy  leaves ; 
Of  fragrance  flown,  of  beauty  gone ; 
Yet,  for  the  love  of  those  white  hands 
That  found  thee,  April's  earliest-born,  — 


126  INTERLUDES. 

That  found  thce  when  thy  dewy  mouth 
Was  purpled  as  with  stains  of  wine,  — 
For  love  of  her  who  love  forgot, 
I  hold  thy  faded  lips  to  mine. 

That  thou  shouldst  live  when  I  am  dead, 
When  hate  is  dead,  for  me,  and  wrong, 
For  this,  I  use  my  subtlest  art, 
For  this,  I  fold  thee  in  my  song. 


\ 
GHOSTS.  127 


GHOSTS. 

JjjHOSE  forms  we  fancy  shadows,  those 

strange  lights 

That  flash  on  dank  morasses,  the  quick 
wind 

1  That  smites  us  by  the  roadside,  —  are  the  Night's 
Innumerable  children.     Unconfined 
By  shroud  or  coffin,  disembodied  souls, 
Uneasy  spirits,  steal  into  the  air 
From  ancient  graveyards  when  the  curfew  tolls 
At  the  day's  death.     Pestilence  and  despair 
Fly  with  the  sightless  bats  at  set  of  sun. 
And  wheresoever  murders  have  been  done, 
In  crowded  palaces  or  lonesome  woods, 
Where'er  a  soul  has  sold  itself  and  lost 
Its  high  inheritance,  there,  hovering,  broods 
Some  sad,  invisible,  accursed  Ghost ! 


lag 


INTERLUDES. 


DEAD. 


SORROWFUL  woman  said  to  me, 
4  Come  in  and  look  on  our  child.' 
I  saw  an  Angel  at  shut  of  day, 


And  it  never  spoke,  —  but  smiled. 


I  think  of  it  in  the  city's  streets, 
I  dream  of  it  when  I  rest,  — 
The  violet  eyes,  the  waxen  hands, 
And  the  one  white  rose  on  the  breast  ! 


THE  LUNCH. 


129 


THE    LUNCH, 


GOTHIC    window,  where   a  damask 
curtain 

Made  the  blank  daylight  shadowy  and 

uncertain : 
A  slab  of  agate  on  four  eagle-talons 
Held  trimly  up  and  neatly  taught  to  balance : 
A  porcelain  dish,  o'er  which  in  many  a  cluster 
Plump  grapes  hung  down,  dead-ripe  and  without 

lustre : 

A  melon  cut  in  thin,  delicious  slices : 
A  cake  that  seemed  mosaic-work  in  spices  : 
Two  China  cups  with  golden  tulips  sunny, 
And  rich  inside  with  chocolate  like  honey ; 
And  she  and  I  the  banquet-scene  completing 
With  dreamy  words,  —  and  very  pleasant  eating ! 


1 3o 


INTERLUDES. 


BEFORE   THE  RAIN. 


E  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  mom, 

A  spirit  on  slender  ropes  of  mist 
Was  lowering  its  golden  buckets  down 
Into  the  vapory  amethyst 

Of  marshes  and  swamps  and  dismal  fens,  — 
Scooping  the  dew  that  lay  in  the  flowers, 

Dipping  the  jewels  out  of  the  sea, 

To  sprinkle  them  over  the  land  in  showers. 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  the  poplars  showed 
The  white  of  their  leaves,  the  amber  grain 

Shrunk  in  the  wind,  —  and  the  lightning  now 
Is  tangled  in  tremulous  skeins  of  rain ! 


AFTER   THE  RAIN.  131 


AFTER  THE  RAIN. 

HE  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 
The  sunshine  pours  an  airy  flood ; 
And  on  the  church's  dizzy  vane 
The  ancient  Cross  is  bathed  in  blood. 

From  out  the  dripping  ivy-leaves, 
Antiquely-carven,  gray  and  high, 
A  dormer,  facing  westward,  looks 
Upon  the  village  like  an  eye  : 

And  now  it  glimmers  in  the  sun, 
A  globe  of  gold,  a  disc,  a  speck  : 
And  in  the  belfry  sits  a  Dove 
With  purple  ripples  on  her  neck. 


INTERLUDES. 
WEDDED. 

[PROVEKCAL  AIB.] 
1. 

HE  happy  bells  shall  ring, 

Marguerite ; 
The  summer  birds  shall  sing 

Marguerite ;  — 

You  smile,  but  you  shall  wear 
Orange  blossoms  in  your  hair, 
Marguerite. 

2. 

Ah  me !  the  bells  have  rung, 

Marguerite  ; 
The  summer  birds  have  sung, 

Marguerite ;  — 
But  cypress  leaf  and  rue 
Make  a  sorry  wreath  for  yon, 

Marguerite. 


BL  UEBELLS  OF  NE  W  ENGLAND,    j  3  3 


THE  BLUEBELLS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

j]HE  roses  are  a  regal  troop, 

And  humble  folks  the  daisies ; 
But,  Bluebells  of  New  England, 
To  you  I  give  my  praises,  — 
To  you,  fair  phantoms  in  the  sun, 
Whom  merry  Spring  discovers, 
With  bluebirds  for  your  laureates, 
And  honey-bees  for  lovers. 

The  south-wind  breathes,  and  lo !  you  throng 

This  rugged  land  of^mrs  : 
I  think  the  pale  blue  clouds  of  May 

Drop  down,  and  turn  to  flowers ! 
By  cottage  doors  along  the  roads 

You  show  your  winsome  faces, 
And,  like  the  spectre  lady,  haunt 

The  lonely  woodland  places. 

All  night  your  eyes  are  closed  in  sleep, 
Kept  fresh  for  day's  adorning : 


I34  INTERLUDES. 

Such  simple  faith  as  yours  can  see 
God's  coming  in  the  morning ! 

You  lead  me  by  your  holiness 
To  pleasant  ways  of  duty : 

You  set  my  thoughts  to  melody, 
You  fill  me  with  your  beauty. 

And  you  are  like  the  eyes  I  love, 

So  modest  and  so  tender, 
Just  touched  with  daybreak's  glorious  light, 

And  evening's  quiet  splendor. 
Long  may  the  heavens  give  you  rain, 

The  sunshine  its  caresses, 
Long  may  the  woman  that  I  love 

Entwine  you  in  her  tresses. 


NORA  MCCARTY. 


135 


NORA  MCCAETY. 

[IRISH  AIK.] 

1. 

'OR A  is  pretty, 

Nora  is  witty, 

Witty  and  pretty  as  pretty  can  be ! 
She 's  the  completest 
Of  girls,  and  the  neatest, 
The  brightest  and  sweetest : 

But  she 's  not  for  me. 

Mavourneen  ! 


Nora,  be  still,  you! 
Nora,  why  will  you 
Be  witty  and  pretty  as  pretty  can  be, 
So  strong  and  so  slender, 
So  haughty  and  tender, 
So  sweet  in  your  splendor,  — 

And  yet  not  for  me  ? 

Mavourneen  ! 


136       _  INTERLUDES. 


THE    MOORLAND. 

[HE  moorland  lies  a  dreary  waste; 

The  night  is  dark  with  drizzling  rain  ; 
In  yonder  yawning  cave  of  cloud 
The  snaky  lightning  writhes  with  pain*. 

O  sobbing  rain,  outside  my  door, 

O  wailing  phantoms,  make  your  moan ; 

Go  through  the  night  in  blind  despair,  — 
Your  shadowy  lips  have  touched  my  own. 

No  more  the  robin  breaks  its  heart 

Of  music  in  the  pathless  woods ! 
The  ravens  croak  for  such  as  I, 

The  plovers  screech  above  their  broods. 

All  mournful  things  are  friends  of  mine, 
(That  weary  sound  of  falling  leaves !) 

Ah,  there  is  not  a  kindred  soul 

For  me  on  earth,  but  moans  and  grieves. 


THE  MOORLAND. 

I  cannot  sleep  this  lonesome  night : 
The  ghostly  rain  goes  by  in  haste, 

And,  further  than  the  eye  can  reach, 
The  moorland  lies  a  dreary  waste. 


137 


INTERLUDES. 


NAMELESS    PAIN. 

N  my  nostrils  the  summer  wind 

Blows  the  exquisite  scent  of  the  rose ! 
O  for  the  golden,  golden  wind, 
Breaking  the  buds  as  it  goes, 
Breaking  the  buds,  and  bending  the  grass, 
And  spilling  the  scent  of  the  rose !     / 

0  wind  of  the  summer  morn, 
Tearing  the  petals  in  twain, 

Wafting  the  fragrant  soul 

Of  the  rose  through  valley  and  plain, 

1  would  you  could  tear  my  heart  to-day, 
And  scatter  its  nameless  pain. 


THE  GIRLS. 


139 


THE    GIKLS. 

1. 
ARIAN,  May,  and  Maud 

Have  not  past  me  by,  — 
Arche'd  foot,  and  mobile  mouth, 
And  bronze-brown  eye ! 


When  my  hair  is  gray, 

Then  I  shall  be  wise ; 
Then,  thank  heaven !  I  shall  not  care 

For  bronze-brown  eyes. 

3. 

Then  let  Maud  and  May 

And  Marian  pass  me  by  ; 
So  they  do  not  scorn  me  now 

What  care  I  ? 


140  INTERLUDES. 


MURDER    DONE. 

1. 

fJNVISlBLE  fingers  of  air 
Just  lifted  the  curtain's  fold, 
Just  rippled  the  calm  of  her  loosened 

hair,  — 

Beautiful,  treacherous  gold ! 

And  she  stood  like  the  thought  of  a  sculptor,  carved 
In  marble,  snowy  and  cold ; 
But  her  pure,  sweet  look  was  as  foul  a  lie 
As  ever  a  woman  told ! 

2. 

A  statue  lay  stark  at  my  feet, 

Dead  to  the  finger-tips. 

A  darkness  hung  in  the  lengths  of  her  hair, 

And  shadowed  her  perjured  lips. 

I  strangled  her  voice,  but,  O  heaven ! 

I  could  not  strangle  one  moan 

That  followed  me  out  in  the  silent  streets 

As  I  fled  through  the  midnight  alone. 


MURDER  DONE.  141 

—  This  in  a  dream.  Now  I  ask, 
Am  I  guilty  as  if  I  were  caught 
With  my  hands  at  her  throat1?  Is  it  murder 

done  ?  — 
I  murdered  her  in  my  thought ! 


142 


INTERLUDES. 


GLAMOURIE. 


]NDER  the  night, 
In  the  white  moonshine, 
Sit  thou  with  me, 
By  the  graveyard  tree, 
Imogene. 

The  fireflies  swarm 

In  the  white  moonshine, 
Each  with  its  light 
For  our  bridal  night, 
Imogene. 

Blushing  with  love, 

In  the  white  moonshine, 
Lie  in  my  arms, 
So,  safe  from  alarms, 
Imogene. 

Paler  art  thou 

Than  the  white  moonshine. 
Ho !  thou  art  lost,  — 
Thou  lovest  a  Ghost, 
Imogene ! 


MAT.  143 


MAY. 

1. 

EBE  's  here,  May  is  here ! 
The  air  is  fresh  and  sunny  ; 
And  the  miser-bees  are  busy 
Hoarding  golden  honey ! 

2. 

See  the  knots  of  buttercups, 
And  the  double  pansies,  — 
Thick  as  these,  within  my  brain, 
Grow  the  wildest  fancies ! 

3. 

Let  me  write  my  songs  to-day, 
Rhymes  with  dulcet  closes,  — 
Four-line  epics  one  might  hide 
In  the  hearts  of  roses. 


144  INTERLUDES. 


PALABRAS   CARIXOSAS. 

[SPANISH  AIR.] 

OOD-NIGHT !  I  have  to  say  good-night 
To  such  a  host  of  peerless  things  ! 
Good-night  unto  that  fragile  hand 
All  queenly  with  its  weight  of  rings ; 
Good-night  to  fond,  up-lifted  eyes, 
Good-night  to  chestnut  braids  of  hair, 
Good-night  unto  the  perfect  mouth, 
And  all  the  sweetness  nestled  there,  — 
The  snowy  hand  detains  me,  then 
I  '11  have  to  say  Good-night  again ! 

But  there  will  come  a  time,  my  love, 

"When,  if  I  read  our  stars  aright, 

I  shall  not  linger  by  this  porch 

With  my  adieus.     Till  then,  good-night ! 

You  wish  the  time  were  now  ?     And  I. 

You  do  not  blush  to  wish  it  so  ? 

You  would  have  blushed  yourself  to  death 

To  own  so  much  a  year  ago,  — 

What,  both  these  snowy  hands  !  ah,  then, 
I  '11  have  to  say  Good-night  again ! 


LITTLE  MAUD. 


'45 


LITTLE    MAUD. 

WHERE  is  our  dainty,  our  darling, 

The  daintiest  darling  of  all  ? 
Where  is  the  voice  on  the  stairway, 
Where  is  the  voice  in  the  hall  ? 
The  little  short  steps  in  the  entry, 

yhe  silvery  laugh  in  the  hall  ? 
Where  is  our  dainty,  our  darling, 
The  daintiest  darling  of  all, 
LMe  Maud  ? 

The  peaches  are  ripe  in  the  orchard, 

The  apricots  ready  to  fall ; 
And  the  grapes  reach  up  to  the  sunshine 

Over  the  garden-wall. 
O  rosehud  of  women !  where  are  you  ? 

(She  never  replies  to  our  call !) 
Where  is  our  dainty,  our  darling, 

The  daintiest  darling  of  all, 
Little  Maud? 
10 


1 46  INTERLUDES. 


AT  THE  MORGUE. 

ERE  is  where  they  bring  the  dead 
When  they  rise  from  the  river's  bed : 
Sinful  women,  who  have  thrown 
Away  the  life  they  would  not  own,  — 
Life  despised  and  trampled  down ! 

Sad  enough !     Now,  you  who  write 

Plays  that  give  the  world  delight, 

Tell  me  if  in  this  you  see 

Naught  for  your  new  tragedy  ? 

Ha !  you  start,  you  turn  from  me 

A  face  brimful  of  misery  ! 

Do  you  know  that  woman  there, 

That  icy  image  of  Despair  ? 

Have  you  heard  her  softly  speak  ? 

Have  you  kissed  her,  lip  and  cheek  ? 

Faith !  you  do  not  kiss  her  now, 

Poor  young  mouth,  and  pale  young  brow, 

Drenche'd  hair,  and  glassy  eye  — 

Go,  put  that  in  your  tragedy. 


SONGS. 


SONGS. 

I. 

HAVE  placed  a  golden 
Ring  upon  the  hand 
Of  the  blithest  little 
Lady  in  the  land  ! 

When  the  early  roses 
Scent  the  sunny  air, 
She  shall  gather  white  ones 
To  tremble  in  her  hair ! 

Hasten,  happy  roses, 
Come  to  me  by  May,  — 
In  your  folded  petals 
Lies  my  wedding-day. 


n. 

THE  chestnuts  shine  through  the  cloven  rind, 
And  the  woodland  leaves  are  red,  my  dear ; 


i48  INTERLUDES. 

The  scarlet  fuchsias  hum  in  the  wind,  — 
Funeral  plumes  for  the  Year ! 

The  Year  which  has  brought  me  so  much  woe, 

That  if  it  were  not  for  you,  my  dear, 

I  could  wish  the  fuchsias'  fire  might  glow 

For  me  as  well  as  the  Year. 


m. 

THE  blackbird  sings  in  the  hazel-brake, 

And  the  squirrel  sits  on  the  tree ; 
And  Blanche  she  walks  in  the  merry  greenwood, 

Down  by  the  summer  sea. 

The  blackbird  lies  when  he  sings  of  love, 

And  the  squirrel,  a  rogue  is  he ; 
And  Blanche  is  an  arrant  flirt,  I  swear, 

And  light  as  light  can  be. 

0  blackbird,  die  in  the  hazel-brake ! 

And,  squirrel,  starve  on  the  tree ! 
And  Blanche  —  you  may  walk  in  the  merry  green- 
wood, 

You  are  nothing  more  to  me. 


SONGS. 


149 


IV. 

OTJT  from  the  depths  of  my  heart 
Had  arisen  this  single  cry, 
Let  me  behold  my  beloved, 
Let  me  behold  her,  and  die. 

At  last,  like  a  sinful  soul 
At  the  portals  of  Heaven  I  lie, 
Never  to  walk  with  the  blest, 
Ah,  never !  .  .  .  only  to  die. 


150  INTERLUDES. 


HESPERIDES. 


F  thy  soul,  Herrick,  dwelt  with  me, 
This  is  what  my  songs  would  be : 
Hints  of  our  sea-breezes,  blent 

With  odors  from  the  Orient; 

Indian  vessels  deep  with  spice ; 

Star-showers  from  the  Norland  ice ; 

Wine-red  jewels  that  seem  to  hold 

Fire,  but  only  burn  with  cold ; 

Antique  goblets,  strangely  wrought, 

Filled  with  the  wine  of  happy  thought ; 

Bridal  measures,  vain  regrets, 

Laburnum  buds  and  violets ; 

Hopeful  as  the  break  of  day ; 

Clear  as  crystal ;  new  as  May ; 

Musical  as  brooks  that  run 

O'er  yellow  shallows  in  the  sun ; 

Soft  as  the  satin  fringe  that  shades 

The  eyelids  of  thy  fragrant  maids ; 

Brief  as  thy  lyrics,  Herrick,  are, 

And  polished  as  the  bosom  of  a  star. 


THE  POET. 


THE    POET. 


E  wasted  richest  gifts  of  God. 

But  here  's  the  limit  of  his  woes, 
Sleep  rest  him !     See,   above   him 

grows 
The  very  grass  whereon  he  trod. 

He  walked  with  daemons,  ghouls,  and  things 
Unsightly  .  .  .  terrors  and  despairs, 
And  ever  in  the  blackened  airs 

A  dismal  raven  flapt  its  wings. 

Behold  !  within  this  narrow  grave 

Is  shut  the  baser  part  of  him. 

Behold !  he  could  not  wholly  dim 
The  genius  gracious  heaven  gave,  — 

For  strains  of  music  here  and  there, 

Weird  murmurings,  vague,  prophetic  tones, 
Are  blown  across  the  silent  zones 

Forever  in  the  midnight  air. 


xSa  INTERLUDES. 


THE   ROBIN. 

ROM  out  the  blossomed  cherry-tops 
Sing,  blithesome  Robin,  chant  and  sing ; 
With  chirp,  and  trill,  and  magic-stops 
Win  thou  the  listening  ear  of  Spring ! 

For  while  thou  lingerest  in  delight, 
An  idle  poet,  with  thy  rhyme, 
The  summer  hours  will  take  their  flight 
And  leave  thee  in  a  barren  clime. 

Not  all  the  Autumn's  brittle  gold, 
Nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  star  shall  bring 
The  jocund  spirit  which  of  old 
Made  it  an  easy  joy  to  sing ! 

So  said  a  poet,  —  having  lost 
The  precious  time  when  he  was  young,  — 
Now  wandering  by  the  wintry  coast 
With  empty  heart  and  silent  tongue. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BABIE  BELL, 
AND  OTHER   POEMS. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BABIE  BELL. 


AVE  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 
How  came  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Into  this  world  of  ours? 
The  gtttes  of  heaven  were  left  ajar : 
"With  folded  hands  and  dreamy  eyes, 
Wandering  out  of  Paradise, 
She  saw  this  planet,  like  a  star, 

Hung  in  the  glistening  depths  of  even,  — 
Its  bridges,  running  to  and  fro, 
O'er  which  the  white-winged  Angels  go, 

Bearing  the  holy  Dead  to  heaven. 
She  touched  a  bridge  of  flowers,  —  those  feet, 
So  light  they  did  not  bend  the  bells 
Of  the  celestial  asphodels  ! 
They  fell  like  dew  upon  the  flowers, 
Then  all  the  air  grew  strangely  sweet ! 
And  thus  came  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Into  this  world  of  ours. 


156       THE  BALLAD  OF  BAB  IE  BELL. 

n.  * 

She  came  and  brought  delicious  May. 

The  swallows  built  beneath  the  eaves ; 

Like  sunlight  in  and  out  the  leaves, 
The  robins  went,  the  livelong  day ; 
The  lily  swung  its  noiseless  bell, 

And  o'er  the  porch  the  trembling  vine 

Seemed  bursting  with  its  veins  of  wine : 
How  sweetly,  softly,  twilight  fell ! 
O,  earth  was  full  of  singing-birds, 
And  opening  spring-tide  flowers, 
When  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Came  to  this  world  of  ours ! 

in. 

O  Babie,  dainty  Babie  Bell, 
How  fair  she  grew  from  day  to  day ! 

What  woman-nature  filled  her  eyes, 
What  poetry  within  them  lay  : 
Those  deep  and  tender  twilight  eyes, 

So  full  of  meaning,  pure  and  bright 
As  if  she  yet  stood  in  the  light 
Of  those  oped  gates  of  Paradise. 
And  so  we  loved  her  more  and  more : 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BADIE  BELL.      157 

Ah,  never  in  our  hearts  before 

Was  love  so  lovely  born  : 
We  felt  we  had  a  link  between 
This  real  world  and  that  unseen, — 

The  land  beyond  the  morn. 
And  for  the  love  of  those  dear  eyes, 
For  love  of  her  whom  God  led  forth, 
(The  mother's  being  ceased  on  earth 
When  Babie  came  from  Paradise,)  — 
For  love  of  Him  who  smote  our  lives, 

And  ^voke  the  chords  of  joy  and  pain, 
We  said,  Dear  Christ !  —  our  hearts  bent  down 

Like  violets  after  rain. 

IV. 

And  now  the  orchards,  which  were  white 
And  red  with  blossoms  when  she  came, 
Were  rich  in  autumn's  mellow  prime : 
The  clustered  apples  burnt  like  flame, 
•The  soft-cheeked  peaches  blushed  and  fell, 
The  ivory  chestnut  burst  its  shell, 
The  grapes  hung  purpling  in  the  grange : 
And  time  wrought  just  as  rich  a  change 
In  little  Babie  Bell. 


158       THE  BALLAD  OF  BAB  IE  BELL. 

Her  lissome  form  more  perfect  grew, 
And  in  her  features  we  could  trace, 
In  softened  curves,  her  mother's  face ! 
Her  angel-nature  ripened  too. 
We  thought  her  lovely  when  she  came, 
But  she  was  holy,  saintly  now  .  .  . 
Around  her  pale  angelic  brow 
We  saw  a  slender  ring  of  flame ! 


God's  hand  had  taken  away  the  seal 

That  held  the  portals  of  her  speech ; 
And  oft  she  said  a  few  strange  words 

Whose  meaning  lay  beyond  our  reach. 
She  never  was  a  child  to  us, 
We  never  held  her  being's  key : 
We  could  not  teach  her  holy  things  : 
She  was  Christ's  self  in  purity. 

VI. 

It  came  upon  us  by  degrees : 

We  saw  its  shadow  ere  it  fell, 

The  knowledge  that  our  God  had  sent 

His  messenger  for  Babie  Bell. 


'59 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BABIE  BELL. 

We  shuddered  with  unlanguaged  pain, 
And  all  our  hopes  were  changed  to  fears, 
And  all  our  thoughts  ran  into  tears 
Like  sunshine  into  rain. 
We  cried  aloud  in  our  belief, 
'  0,  smite  us  gently,  gently,  God ! 
Teach  us  to  bend  and  kiss  the  rod, 
And  perfect  grow  through  grief/ 
Ah,  how  we  loved  her,  God  can  tell ; 
Her  heart  was  folded  deep  in  ours. 
Our  hearts  are  broken,  Babie  Bell ! 


VII. 

At  last  he  came,  the  messenger, 

The  messenger  from  unseen  lands : 
And  what  did  dainty  Babie  Bell  ? 
She  only  crossed  her  little  hands, 
She  only  looked  more  meek  and  fair ! 
We  parted  back  her  silken  hair : 
We  wove  the  roses  round  her  brow, 
White  buds,  the  summer's  drifted  snow,  — 
Wrapt  her  from  head  to  foot  in  flowers  ! 
And  thus  went  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Out  of  this  world  of  ours ! 


160          PISCATAQUA  RIVER. 
PISCATAQUA  RIVER. 

1860. 

HOU  singest  by  the  gleaming  isles, 

By  woods  and  fields  of  corn, 
Thou  singest,  and  the  heaven  smiles 
Upon  my  birthday  morn. 

But  I  within  a  city,  I, 

So  full  of  vague  unrest, 
Would  almost  give  my  life  to  lie 

An  hour  upon  thy  breast. 

To  let  the  wherry  listless  go, 

And,  wrapt  in  dreamy  joy, 
Dip,  and  surge  idly  to  and  fro, 

Like  the  red  harbor-buoy ! 

To  sit  in  happy  indolence, 

To  rest  upon  the  oars, 
And  catch  the  heavy  earthy  scents 

That  blow  from  summer  shores  : 


PIS  CAT  AQUA  RIVER.  161 

To  see  the  rounded  sun  go  down, 

And  with  its  parting  fires 
Light  up  the  windows  of  the  town 

And  burn  the  tapering  spires ! 

And  then  to  hear  the  muffled  tolls 

From  steeples  slim  and  white, 
And  watch,  among  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 

The  Beacon's  orange  light. 

O  River !  flowing  to  the  main 

Through  woods  and  fields  of  corn, 

Hear  thou  my  longing  and  my  pain 
This  sunny  birthday  morn  : 

And  take  this  song  which  sorrow  shapes 

To  music  like  thine  own, 
And  sing  it  to  the  cliffs  and  capes 

And  crags  where  I  am  known ! 


i6z  PYTHAGORAS. 


PYTHAGORAS. 

JBOVE  the  petty  passions  of  the  crowd 
I  stand  in  frozen  marble  like  a  god, 
Inviolate,  and  ancient  as  the  moon. 
The  thing  I  am,  and  not  the  thing  Man  is, 
Fills  my  deep  dreaming.     Let  him  moan  and  die ; 
For  he  is  dust  that  shall  be  laid  again : 
I  know  my  own  creation  was  divine. 
Strewn  on  the  breezy  continents  I  see 
The  veined  shells  and  burnished  scales  which  once 
Enclosed  my  being,  —  husks  that  had  their  use ; 
I  brood  on  all  the  shapes  I  must  attain 
Before  I  reach  the  Perfect,  which  is  God, 
And  dream  my  dream,  and  let  the  rabble  go ; 
For  1  am  of  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
The  deserts,  and  the  caverns  in  the  earth, 
The  catacombs  and  fragments  of  old  worlds. 

I  was  a  spirit  on  the  mountain-tops, 
A  perfume  in  the  valleys,  a  simoom 
On  arid  deserts,  a  nomadic  wind 


PYTHAGORAS.  163 

Roaming  the  universe,  a  tireless  Voice. 
I  was  ere  Romulus  and  Remus  were ; 
I  was  ere  Nineveh  and  Babylon ; 
I  was,  and  am,  and  evermore  shall  be, 
Progressing,  never  reaching  to  the  end. 

A  hundred  years  I  trembled  in  the  grass, 
The  delicate  trefoil  that  muffled  warm 
A  slope  on  Ida ;  for  a  hundred  years 
Moved  in  the  purple  gyre  of  those  dark  flowers 
The  Grecian  women  strew  upon  the  dead. 
Under  the  earth,  in  fragrant  glooms,  I  dwelt ; 
Then  in  the  veins  and  sinews  of  a  pine 
On  a  lone  isle,  where,  from  the  Cyclades, 
A  mighty  wind,  like  a  leviathan, 
Ploughed  through  the  brine,  and  from  those  soli- 
tudes 

Sent  Silence,  frightened.     To  and  fro  I  swayed, 
Drawing  the  sunshine  from  the  stooping  clouds. 
Suns  came  and  went,  and  many  a  mystic  moon, 
Orbing  and  waning,  and  fierce  meteors, 
Leaving  their  lurid  ghosts  to  haunt  the  night. 
I  heard  loud  voices  by  the  sounding  shore, 
The  stormy  sea-gods,  and  from  fluted  conchs 
Wild  music,  and  strange  shadows  floated  by, 


164  PYTHAGORAS. 

Some  moaning  and  some  singing.     So  the  years 
Clustered  about  me,  till  the  hand  of  God 
Let  down  the  lightning  from  a  sultry  sky, 
Splintered  the  pine  and  split  the  iron  rock ; 
And  from  my  odorous  prison-house  a  bird, 
I  in  its  bosom,  darted :  so  we  fled, 
Turning  the  brittle  edge  of  one  high  wave, 
Island  and  tree  and  sea-gods  left  behind ! 

Free  as  the  air  from  zone  to  zone  I  flew, 
Far  from  the  tumult  to  the  quiet  gates 
Of  daybreak ;  and  beneath  me  I  beheld 
Vineyards,  and  rivers  that  like  silver  threads 
Ran  through  the  green  and  gold  of  pasture-lands, 
And  here  and  there  a  hamlet,  a  white  rose, 
And  here  and  there  a  city,  whose  slim  spires 
And  palace-roofs  and  swollen  domes  uprose 
Like  scintillant  stalagmites  in  the  sun ; 
I  saw  huge  navies  battling  with  a  storm 
By  ragged  reefs  along  the  desolate  coasts, 
And  lazy  merchantmen,  that  crawled,  like  flies, 
Over  the  blue  enamel  of  the  sea  • 

To  India  or  the  icy  Labradors. 

A  century  was  as  a  single  day. 
What  is  a  day  to  an  immortal  soul  ? 


PYTHAGORAS.  165 

A  breath,  no  more.     And  yet  I  hold  one  hour 
Beyond  all  price,  —  that  hour  when  from  the  sky 
I  circled  near  and  nearer  to  the  earth, 
Nearer  and  nearer,  till  I  brushed  my  wings 
Against  the  pointed  chestnuts,  where  a  stream 
That  foamed  and  chattered  over  pebbly  shoals, 
Fled  through  the  briony,  and  with  a  shout 
Leapt  headlong  down  a  precipice ;  and  there, 
Gathering  wild-flowers  in  the  cool  ravine, 
Wandered  a  woman  more  divinely  shaped 
Than  an,v  of  the  creatures  of  the  air, 
Or  river-goddesses,  or  restless  shades 
Of  noble  matrons  marvellous  in  their  time 
For  beauty  and  great  suffering ;  and  I  sung, 
I  charmed  her  thought,  I  gave  her  dreams,  and  then 
Down  from  the  dewy  atmosphere  I  stole 
And  nestled  in  her  bosom.     There  I  slept 
From  moon  to  moon,  while  in  her  eyes  a  thought 
Grew  sweet  and  sweeter,  deepening  like  the  dawn,  — 
A  mystical  forewarning !     When  the  stream, 
Breaking  through  leafless  brambles  and  dead  leaves, 
Piped  shriller  treble,  and  from  chestnut  boughs 
The  fruit  dropt  noiseless  through  the  autumn  night, 
I  gave  a  quick,  low  cry,  as  infants  do  : 


1 66  PYTHAGORAS. 

We  weep  when  we  are  born,  not  when  we  die ! 
So  was  it  destined ;  and  thus  came  I  here, 
To  walk  the  earth  and  wear  the  form  of  Man, 
To  suffer  bravely  as  becomes  my  state, 
One  step,  one  grade,  one  cycle  nearer  God. 

And  knowing  these  things,  can  I  stoop  to  fret, 
And  lie,  and  haggle  in  the  market-place, 
Give  dross  for  dross,  or  everything  for  naught  1 
No !  let  me  sit  above  the  crowd,  and  sing, 
Waiting  with  hope  for  that  miraculous  change 
Which  seems  like  sleep;    and  though  I  waiting 

starve, 

I  cannot  kiss  the  idols  that  are  set 
By  every  gate,  in  every  street  and  park ; 
I  cannot  fawn,  I  cannot  soil  my  soul : 
For  I  am  of  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
The  deserts  and  the  caverns  in  the  earth, 
The  catacombs  and  fragments  of  old  worlds. 


A  BALLAD   OF  NAN  TUCKET.        167 


A  BALLAD   OF  NANTUCKET. 

HERE  go  you,  pretty  MaggiCj 
Where  go  you  in  the  rain  ? ' 
'  I  go  to  ask  the  sailors 
Who  sailed  the  Spanish  main, 

,'  If  they  have  seen  my  Willie, 
If  he  '11  come  back  to  me,  — 
It  is  so  sad  to  have  him 
A-sailing  on  the  sea.' 

'  O  Maggie,  pretty  Maggie, 
Turn  back  to  yonder  town ; 
Your  Willie  's  in  the  ocean, 
A  hundred  fathoms  down ! 

1  His  hair  is  turned  to  sea-kelp, 
His  eyes  are  changed  to  stones, 
And  twice  two  years  have  knitted 
The  coral  round  his  bones ! 


j 68        A  BALLAD   OF  NANTUCKET. 

*  The  blossoms  and  the  clover 
Shall  bloom  and  bloom  again, 
But  never  shall  your  lover 
Come  o'er  the  Spanish  main ! ' 

But  Maggie  never  heeded, 
For  mournfully  said  she  : 
'  It  is  so  sad  to  have  him 
A-sailing  on  the  sea.' 

She  left  me  in  the  darkness  : 
I  heard  the  sea-gulls  screech, 
And  burly  winds  were  growling 
With  breakers  on  the  beach. 

The  bells  of  old  Nantncket, 
What  touching  things  they  said, 
When  Maggie  lay  a-sleeping 
With  lilies  round  her  head. 

The  parson  preached  a  sermon, 
And  prayed  and  preached  again,  - 
But  she  had  gone  to  Willie 
Across  the  Spanish  main  I 


THE  TRAGEDY.  169 


THE   TRAGEDY. 

LA   DAME    AUX    CAMELIAS. 

A.  Dame  aux  Caindias,  — 

I  think  that  was  the  play ; 
The  house  was  packed  from  pit  to  dome 
With  the  gallant  and  the  gay, 
Who  had  come  to  see  the  Tragedy, 
And  wile  the  hours  away. 

There  was  the  ruined  Spendthrift, 

And  Beauty  in  her  prime ; 
There  was  the  grave  Historian, 

And  there  the  man  of  Rhyme, 
And  the  surly  Critic,  front  to  front, 

To  see  the  play  of  Crime. 

And  there  was  pompous  Ignorance, 

And  Vice  in  Honiton  lace ; 
Sir  Croesus  and  Sir  Pandarus,  — 

And  the  music  played  apace. 


170 


THE   TRAGEDY. 


But  of  all  that  crowd  I  only  saw 
A  single,  single  face ! 

That  of  a  g"irl  whom  I  had  known 

In  the  summers  long  ago, 
When  her  breath  was  like  the  new-mown  hay, 

Or  the  sweetest  flowers  that  grow,  — 
When  her  heart  was  light,  and  her  soul  was  white 

As  the  winter's  driven  snow. 

And  there  she  sat  with  her  great  brown  eyes, 

They  wore  a  troubled  look ; 
And  I  read  the  history  of  her  life 

As  it  were  an  open  book  ; 
And  saw  her  Soul,  like  a  slimy  thing 

In  the  bottom  of  a  brook. 

There  she  sat  in  her  rustling  silk, 

With  diamonds  on  her  wrist, 
And  on  her  brow  a  gleaming  thread 

Of  pearl  and  amethyst. 
'  A  cheat,  a  gilded  grief ! '  I  said, 

And  my  eyes  were  filled  with  mist. 

I  could  not  see  the  players  play, 
I  heard  the  music  moan ; 


THE  TRAGEDY.  171 

It  moaned  like  a  dismal  autumn  wind, 

That  dies  in  the  woods  alone ; 
And  when  it  stopped  I  heard  it  still, 

The  mournful  monotone ! 


What  if  the  Count  were  true  or  false  ? 

I  did  not  care,  not  I ; 
What  if  Camille  for  Armand  died  ? 

I  did  not  see  her  die. 
There  sat  a  woman  opposite 

Who  held  me  with  her  eye ! 

The  great  green  curtain  fell  on  all, 
On  laugh,  and  wine,  and  woe, 

Just  as  death  some  day  will  fall 
'Twixt  us  and  life,  I  know  ! 

The  play  was  done,  the  bitter  play, 
And  the  people  turned  to  go. 

And  did  they  see  the  Tragedy  ? 

They  saw  the  painted  scene ; 
They  saw  Armand,  the  jealous  fool, 

And  the  sick  Parisian  queen ; 


I7a  THE  TRAGEDY. 

But  they  did  not  see  the  Tragedy,  — 
The  one  I  saw,  I  mean  ! 


They  did  not  see  that  cold-cut  face, 

That  furtive  look  of  care : 
Or,  seeing  her  jewels,  only  said, 

'  The  lady  Js  rich  and  fair.' 
But  I  tell  you,  't  was  the  Play  of  Life, 

And  that  woman  played  Despair ! 


HAUNTED.  173 


HAUNTED. 

NOISOME  mildewed  vine 
Crawls  to  the  rotting  eaves ; 
The  gate  has  dropt  from  the  rusty  hinge 
A.nd  the  walks  are  stamped  with  leaves. 

Close  by  the  shattered  fence 

The  red-clay  road  runs  by 

To  a  haunted  wood,  where  the  hemlocks  groan 

And  the  willows  sob  and  sigh. 

Among  the  dank  lush  flowers 

The  spiteful  firefly  glows, 

And  a  woman  steals  by  the  stagnant  pond 

Wrapt  in  her  burial  clothes. 

There  's  a  dark  blue  scar  on  her  throat, 
And  ever  she  makes  a  moan, 
And  the  humid  lizards  shine  in  the  grass, 
And  the  lichens  weep  on  the  stone ; 


1 74  HAUNTED. 

And  the  Moon  shrinks  in  a  cloud, 
And  the  traveller  shakes  with  fear, 
And  an  Owl  on  the  skirts  of  the  wood 
Hoots,  and  says,  Do  you  hear  ? 

Go  not  there  at  night, 

For  a  spell  hangs  over  all,  — 

The  palsied  elms,  and  the  dismal  road, 

And  the  broken  garden-wall. 

O,  go  not  there  at  night, 
For  a  curse  is  on  the  place ; 
Go  not  there,  for  fear  you  meet 
The  Murdered  face  to  face ! 


PAMPINEA. 


'75 


PAMPINEA. 


AN    IDYL. 


YING  by  the  summer  sea 
I  had  a  dream  of  Italy. 
Chalky  cliffs  and  miles  of  sand, 
Mossy  reefs  and  salty  caves, 
Then  the  sparkling  emerald  waves, 
Faded ;  and  I  seemed  to  stand, 
Myself  a  languid  Florentine, 
In  the  heart  of  that  fair  land. 
And  in  a  garden  cool  and  green, 
Boccaccio's  own  enchanted  place, 
I  met  Pampinea  face  to  face,  — 
A  maid  so  lovely  that  to  see 
Her  smile  is  to  know  Italy ! 
Her  hair  was  like  a  coronet 
Upon  her  Grecian  forehead  set, 
Where  one  gem  glistened  sunnily 
Like  Venice,  when  first  seen  at  sea. 


1 76  P AMP  IN E A. 

I  saw  within  her  violet  eyes 
The  starlight  of  Italian  skies, 
And  on  her  brow  and  breast  and  hand 
The  olive-of  her  native  land ! 

And  knowing  how  in  other  times 

Her  lips  were  ripe  with  Tuscan  rhymes 

Of  love  and  wine  and  dance,  I  spread 

My  mantle  by  an  almond-tree, 

'  And  here,  beneath  the  rose,'  I  said, 

« I  '11  hear  thy  Tuscan  melody/ 

I  heard  a  tale  that  was  not  told 

In  those  ten  dreamy  days  of  old, 

When  Heaven,  for  some  divine  offence, 

Smote  Florence  with  the  pestilence ; 

And  in  that  garden's  odorous  shade, 

The  dames  of  the  Decameron, 

With  each  a  loyal  lover,  strayed, 

To  laugh  and  sing,  at  sorest  need, 

To  lie  in  the  lilies  in  the  sun 

With  glint  of  plume  and  silver  brcde ! 

And  while  she  whispered  in  my  ear, 

The  pleasant  Arno  murmured  near, 

The  dewy,  slim  chameleons  run 


P AMP  IN E A. 

Through  twenty  colors  in  the  sun  ; 

The  breezes  broke  the  fountain's  glass, 

And  woke  seolian  melodies, 

And  shook  from  out  the  scented  trees 

The  lemon-blossoms  on  the  grass. 

The  tale  ?     I  have  forgot  the  tale,  — 

A  Lady  all  for  love  forlorn, 

A  rose-bud,  and  a  nightingale 

That  bruised  his  bosom  on  the  thorn : 

A  pot  of  rubies  buried  deep, 

A  glen,  a  corpse,  a  child  asleep, 

A  Monk,  that  was  no  monk  at  all, 

In  the  moonlight  by  a  castle  wall. 

Now  while  the  large-eyed  Tuscan  wove 
The  gilded  thread  of  her  romance,  — 
Which  I  have  lost  by  grievous  chance,  — 
The  one  dear  woman  that  I  love, 
Beside  me  in  our  sea-side  nook, 
Closed  a  white  finger  in  her  book, 
Half  vext  that  she  should  read,  and  weep 
For  Petrarch,  to  a  man  asleep ! 
And  scorning  me,  so  tame  and  cold, 
She  rose,  and  wandered  down  the  shore, 

12 


177 


I78  P AMP  IN E A. 

Her  wine-dark  drapery,  fold  in  fold, 
Imprisoned  by  an  ivory  hand  ; 
And  on  a  ledge  of  oolite,  half  in  sand, 
She  stood,  and  looked  at  Appledore. 

And  waking,  I  beheld  her  there 

Sea-dreaming  in  the  moted  air, 

A  siren  lithe  and  debonair, 

With  wristlets  woven  of  scarlet  weeds, 

And  oblong  lucent  amber  beads 

Of  sea-kelp  shining  in  her  hair. 

And  as  I  thought  of  dreams,  and  how 

The  something  in  us  never  sleeps, 

But  laughs,  or  sings,  or  moans,  or  weeps, 

She  turned,  —  and  on  her  breast  and  brow 

I  saw  the  tint  that  seemed  not  won 

From  kisses  of  New  England  sun ; 

I  saw  on  brow  and  breast  and  hand 

The  olive  of  a  sunnier  land ! 

She  turned,  —  and,  lo  !  within  her  eyes 

There  lay  the  starlight  of  Italian  skies  ! 

Most  dreams  are  dark,  beyond  the  range 

Of  reason ;  oft  we  cannot  tell 

If  they  are  born  of  heaven  or  hell : 


P AMP  IN E A.  179 

But  to  my  soul  it  seems  not  strange 
That,  lying  by  the  summer  sea, 
With  that  dark  woman  watching  me, 
I  slept  and  dreamed  of  Italy ! 


i8o  A  GREAT  MAN'S  DEATH. 


A   GKEAT   MAN'S   DEATH. 

uj 0-DAY  a  god  died.     Never  any  more 
Shall  man  look  on  him.     Never  any 

more, 

In  hall  or  senate,  shall  his  eloquent  voice 
Give  hope  to  a  sick  nation.     In  his  prime 
Not  all  the  world  could  daunt  him ;  yet  a  ghost, 
A  poor  mute  ghost,  a  something  we  call  Death, 
Has  silenced  him  forever.     Let  the  land 
Look  for  his  peer :  he  has  not  yet  been  found. 

A  callow  bird,  of  not  so  many  days 
As  there  are  leaves  upon  the  wildling  rose, 
Chirps  from  yon  sycamore ;  this  violet 
Sprung  up  an  hour  since  from  the  fibrous  earth : 
At  noon  the  rain  fell,  and  to-night  the  sun 
Will  sink  with  its  old  grandeur  in  the  sea,  — 
And  yet  to-day  a  god  died.  .  .  .  Nature  smiles 
On  our  mortality.     A  sparrow's  death, 
Or  the  unnoticed  falling  of  a  leaf, 
Is  more  to  her  than  when  a  great  man  dies ! 


KATHIE  MORRIS. 


KATHIE    MORRIS. 


AN    OLD    MAN'S    POEM. 


H!   fine  it  was  that  April  time,  when 

gentle  winds  were  blowing, 
To  hunt  for  pale  arbutus-blooms  that 
hide  beneath  the  leaves, 
To  hear  the  slanting  rain  come  down,  and  see  the 

clover  growing, 

And  watch  the  airy  swallows  as  they  darted  round 
the  eaves  ! 

2. 

You  wonder  why  I  dream  to-night  of  clover  that 

was  growing 
So  many  years  ago,  my  wife,  when  we  were  in  our 

prime  ; 
For,  hark  !  the  wind  is  in  the  flue,  and  Johnny 

says  't  is  snowing, 
And  through  the  storm  the  clanging  bells  ring  in 

the  Christmas  time. 


i8a  KATHIE  MORRIS. 

3. 
I  cannot  tell,  but  something  sweet  about  my  heart 

is  clinging. 

A  vision  and  a  memory,  —  't  is  little  that  I  mind 
The  weary  wintry  weather,  for  I  hear  the  robins 

singing, 
And  the  petals  of  the  apple-blooms  are  ruffled  in 

the  wind ! 

4. 

It  was  a  sunny  morn  in  May,  and  in  the  fragrant 

meadow 
I  lay,  and  dreamed  of  one  fair  face,  as  fair  and  fresh 

as  spring : 
Would  Kathie  Morris  love  me  ?  then  in  sunshine 

and  in  shadow 
I  built  up  lofty  castles  on  a  golden  wedding-ring. 

5. 

0,  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  her,  the  soldier's  only 

daughter, 

The  pretty  pious  Puritan,  that  flirted  so  with  Will ; 
The  music  of  her  winsome  mouth  was  like  the 

laughing  water 
That  broke  in  silvery  syllables  by  Farmer  Philip's 

mill. 


KATE  IE  MORRIS.  183 

6. 
And  Will  had  gone  away  to  sea ;  he  did  not  leave 

her  grieving ; 
Her  bonny  heart  was  not  for  him,  so  reckless  and 

so  vain ; 
And  Will  turned  out  a  buccaneer,  and  hanged  was 

he  for  thieving 
And  scuttling  helpless  ships  that  sailed  across  the 

Spanish  Main. 

7. 

And  I  had  come,  to  grief  for  her,  the  scornful  vil- 
lage beauty, 

For,  O  !  she  had  a  witty  tongue  could  cut  you  like 
a  knife ; 

She  scorned  me  with  her  haughty  eyes,  and  I,  in 
bounden  duty, 

Did  love  her,  —  loved  her  more  for  that,  and  wea- 
ried of  my  life ! 

8. 
And  yet  't  was  sweet  to  dream  of  her,  to  think  her 

wavy  tresses 
Might  rest  some  happy,  happy  day,  like  sunshine, 

on  my  cheek ; 


1 84  KATHIE  MORRIS. 

The  idle  winds  that  fanned  my  brow  I  dreamed 
were  her  caresses, 

And  in  the  robin's  twitterings  I  heard  my  sweet- 
heart speak. 

9. 
And  as  I  lay  and  thought  of  her,  her  fairy  face 

adorning 
With  lover's  fancies,  treasuring  the  slightest  word 

she  'd  said, 
'T  was  Kathie  broke   upon   me  like  a  blushing 

summer  morning, 
And  a  half-blown  rosy  clover  reddened  underneath 

her  tread ! 

10. 

Then  I  glanced  up  at  Kathie,  and  her  eyes  were 
full  of  laughter : 

'  O  Kathie,  Kathie  Moras,  I  am  lying  at  your 
feet; 

Bend  above  me,  say  you  love  me,  that  you  '11  love 
me  ever  after, 

Or  let  me  lie  and  die  here,  in  the  fragrant  meadow- 
sweet ! ' 


KATHIE  MORRIS.  185 

11. 

And  then  I  turned  my  face  away,  and  trembled  at 

my  daring, 
For   wildly,    wildly  had  I  spoke,  with   flashing 

cheek  and  eye ; 
And  there  was  silence ;  I  looked  up,  all  pallid  and 

despairing, 
For  fear  she  'd  take  me  at  my  word,  and  leave  me 

there  to  die. 

12. 

The  modest  lashes  of  her  eyes  upon  her  cheeks 
were  dr6oping, 

Her  merciless  white  fingers  tore  a  blushing  bud 
apart ; 

Then,  quick  as  lightning,  Kathie  came,  and  kneel- 
ing half  and  stooping, 

She  hid  her  bonny,  bonny  face  against  my  beating 
heart. 

13. 

O,  nestle,  nestle,  nestle  there !   the  heart  would 

give  thee  greeting ; 
Lie  thou  there,  all  trustfully,   in  trouble  and  in 

pain; 


186  K AT  HIE  MORRIS. 

This  breast  shall  shield  thee  from  the  storm  and 

bear  its  bitter  beating, 
These  arms  shall  hold  thee  tenderly  in  sunshine 

and  in  rain. 

14. 

Old  sexton !  set  your  chimes  in  tune,  and  let  there 
be  no  snarling,  *• 

Ring  out  a  joyous  wedding-hymn  to  all  the  listen- 
ing air ; 

And,  girls,  strew  roses  as  she  comes,  the  scornful, 
brown-eyed  darling,  — 

A  princess,  by  the  wavy  gold  and  glistening  of 
her  hair ! 

15. 
Hark !  hear  the  bells.     The  Christmas  bells  ?     0, 

no ;  who  set  them  ringing  ? 
I  think  I  hear  our  bridal-bells,  and  I  with  joy  am 

blind; 
I  smell  the  clover  in  the  fields,  I  hear  the  robins 

singing. 
And  the  petals  of  the  apple-blooms  are  ruined  in 

the  wind ! 


KATH1E  MORRIS. 


187 


Ah !  Kathie,  you  Ve  been  true  to  me  in  fair  and 

cloudy  weather ; 
Our  Father  has  been  good  to  us  when  we  've  been 

sorely  tried : 
I  pray  to  Him,  when  we  must  die,  that  we  may 

die  together, 
And  slumber  softly  underneath  the  clover,  side  by 

side. 


1 88  LAMIA. 


LAMIA. 

0  on  your  way,  and  let  me  pass. 

You  stop  a  wild  despair. 
I  would  that  I  were  turned  to  brass 
Like  that  chained  lion  there, 

'  Which,  couchant  hy  the  postern  gate, 

In  weather  foul  or  fair, 
Looks  down  serenely  desolate, 

And  nothing  does  but  stare ! 

'  Ah,  what 's  to  me  the  burgeoned  year, 

The  sad  leaf  or  the  gay  ? 
Let  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 

Their  falcons  fly  this  day. 

'  'T  will  be  as  royal  sport,  pardie, 

As  falconers  have  tried 
At  Astolat,  —  but  let  me  be ! 

I  would  that  I  had  died. 


LAMIA. 

'  I  met  afKvoman  in  the  glade : 
Her  hair  was  soft  and  brown, 

And  long  bent  silken  lashes  weighed 
Her  ivory  eyelids  down. 

'  I  kissed  her  hand,  I  called  her  blest, 
I  held  her  leal  and  fair,  — 

She  turned  to  shadow  on  my  breast, 
And  melted  in  the  air ! 

« And,  lo  !  .about  me,  fold  on  fold, 
A  writhing  serpent  hung,  — 

An  eye  of  jet,  a  skin  of  gold, 
A  garnet  for  a  tongue ! 

'  O,  let  the  petted  falcons  fly 

Right  merry  in  the  sun ; 
But  let  me  be !  for  I  shall  die 

Before  the  year  is  done.' 


I9o  INVOCATION  TO  SLEEP. 


INVOCATION  TO   SLEEP. 

i. 
jT'HERE  is  a  rest  for  all  things.     On  still 

nights 

There    is    a    folding    of   a   million 
wings,  — 

The  swarming  honey-bees  in  unknown  woods, 
The  speckled  butterflies,  and  downy  broods 

In  dizzy  poplar  heights  : 
Rest  for  innumerable  nameless  things, 
Rest  for  the  creatures  underneath  the  Sea, 
And  in  the  Earth,  and  in  the.  starry  Air  .  .  .  , 
Why  will  it  not  unburden  me  of  care  ? 
It  comes  to  meaner  things  than  my  despair. 
O  weary,  weary  night,  that  brings  no  rest  to  me ! 


Spirit  of  dreams  and  silvern  memories, 

Delicate  Sleep ! 

One  who  is  sickening  of  his  tiresome  days, 
Brings  thee  a  soul  that  he  would  have  thee  keep 
A  captive  in  thy  mystical  domain, 


INVOCATION  TO  SLEEP.  19 1 

With  Puck  and  Ariel,  and  the  grotesque  train 
That  do  inhabit  slumber.     Give  his  sight 
Immortal  shapes,  and  bring  to  him  again 
His  Psyche  that  went  out  into  the  night ! 

in. 

Thou  who  dost  hold  the  priceless  keys  of  rest, 
Strew  lotus-leaves  and  poppies  on  my  breast, 

And  bear  me  to  thy  castle  in  the  land 
Touched  with  all  colors  like  a  burning  west,  — 
The  Castle  of  Vision,  where  the  unchecked  thought 
•  Wanders  at  will  upon  enchanted  ground, 

Making  no  sound 

In  all  the  corridors  .  .  . 

The  bell  sleeps  in  the  belfry,  —  from  its  tongue 
A  drowsy  murmur  floats  into  the  air, 
Like  thistle-down.     Slumber  is  everywhere. 
The  rook  's  asleep,  and,  in  its  dreaming,  caws ; 
And  silence  mopes  where  nightingales  have  sung ; 
The  Sirens  lie  in  grottos  cool  and  deep  : 

The  Naiads  in  the  streams  : 
But  I,  in  chilling  twilight,  stand  and  wait 
On  the  portcullis,  at  thy  castle  gate, 
Yearning  to  see  the  magic  door  of  dreams 
Turn  on  its  noiseless  hinges,  delicate  Sleep ! 


I9a  BE  ADRIFT. 


SEADKIFT. 

EE  where  she  stands,  on  the  wet  sea- 
sands, 

Looking  across  the  water : 
Wild  is  the  night,  but  wilder  still 
The  face  of  the  fisher's  daughter ! 

What  does  she  there,  in  the  lightning's  glare, 

What  does  she  there,  I  wonder  ? 
What  dread  daemon  drags  her  forth 

In  the  night  and  wind  and  thunder  ? 

Is  it  the  ghost  that  haunts  this  coast  ?  — 

The  cruel  waves  mount  higher, 
And  the  beacon  pierces  the  stormy  dark 

With  its  javelin  of  fire. 

Beyond  the  light  of  the  beacon  bright 

A  merchantman  is  tacking; 
The  hoarse  wind  whistling  through  the  shrouds, 

And  the  brittle  topmasts  cracking. 


SE 'ADRIFT.  193 

The  sea  it  moans  over  dead  men's  bones, 

The  sea  it  foams  in  anger ; 
The  curlews  swoop  through  the  resonant  air 

With  a  warning  cry  of  danger. 

The  star- fish  clings  to  the  sea-weed's  rings 

In  a  vague,  dumb  sense  of  peril ; 
And  the  spray,  with  its  phantom-fingers,  grasps 

At  the  mullein  dry  and  sterile. 

0,  who  is  she  that  stands  by  the  sea, 
In  the  lightning's  glare,  undaunted  ?  — 

Seems  this  now  like  the  coast  of  hell 
By  one  white  spirit  haunted  ! 

The  night  drags  by ;  and  the  breakers  die 

Along  the  ragged  ledges  ; 
The  robin  stirs  in  its  drenched  nest, 

The  hawthorn  blooms  on  the  hedges. 

In  shimmering  lines,  through  the  dripping  pines, 

The  stealthy  morn  advances ; 
And  the  heavy  sea-fog  straggles  back 

Before  those  bristling  lances  ! 
13 


94  SE ADRIFT. 

Still  she  stands  on  the  wet  sea-sands ; 

The  morning  breaks  above  her, 
And  the  corpse  of  a  sailor  gleams  on  the  rocks, 

What  if  it  were  her  lover  ? 


THE   QUEEN'S  RIDE.  195 

THE    QUEEN'S    RIDE. 

AN    INVITATION. 


IS  that  fair  time  of  year, 

Lady  mine, 

When  stately  Guinevere, 
In  her  sea-green  robe  and  hood, 
Went  a-riding  through  the  wood, 
Lady  mine. 

And  as  the  Queen  did  ride, 

Lady  mine, 

Sir  Launcelot  at  her  side 
Laughed  and  chatted,  bending  over, 
Half  her  friend  and  all  her  lover ! 

Lady  mine. 

And  as  they  rode  along, 

Lady  mine, 

The  throstle  gave  them  song, 
And  the  buds  peeped  through  the  grass 


196  THE   QUEEN'S  RIDE. 

To  see  youth  and  beauty  pass  ! 
Lady  mine. 


And  on,  through  deathless  time, 

Lady  mine, 

These  lovers  in  their  prime, 
(Two  fairy  ghosts  together!) 
Ride,  with  sea-green  robe,  and  feather ! 

Lady  mine. 

And  so  we  two  will  ride, 

Lady  mine, 

At  your  pleasure,  side  by  side, 
Laugh  and  chat ;  I  bending  over, 
Half  your  friend  and  all  your  lover ! 

Lady  mine. 

But  if  you  like  not  this, 

Lady  mine, 

And  take  my  love  amiss, 
Then  I  '11  ride  unto  the  end, 
Half  your  lover,  all  your  friend ! 

Lady  mine. 


THE   QUEEN'S  RIDE. 

So,  come  which  way  you  will, 

Lady  mine, 

Vale,  upland,  plain  and  hill 
Wait  your  coming.     For  one  day 
Loose  the  bridle,  and  away ! 

Lady  mine. 


197 


i98 


BARBARA. 


BARBARA. 

[The  Duke  speaks.] 

I. 

ARBARA  has  a  falcon's  eye, 

And  a  soft  white  hand  has  Barbara ; 
Beware,  —  for  to  make  you  wish  to  die, 
To  make  you  as  pale  as  the  moon  or  I, 
Is  a  pet  trick  with  Barbara. 

Merrily  bloweth  the  summer  wind, 

But  cold  and  cruel  is  Barbara ! 
And  I,  a  Duke,  stand  here  like  a  hind, 
Too  happy,  i'  faith,  if  I  am  struck  blind 

By  the  sharp  look  of  Barbara. 

Ay,  Sweetmou',  you  are  haughty  now ; 

Time  was,  time  was,  my  Barbara, 
When  I  covered  your  lips  and  brow 
And  bosom  with  kisses,  —  faith,  't  is  snow 

That  was  all  fire  then,  Barbara. 


BARBARA. 


199 


For  whom  shall  you  hold  Agatha's  ring  ? 

Whom  will  you  love  next,  Barbara  ? 
Choose  from  the  Court,  — your  page  or  the  King  ? 
Or  one  of  those  sleek-limbed  fellows  who  bring 

Rose-colored  notes  *  For  Barbara  ? ' 

Love  the  King,  by  all  that  is  good ! 

Make  eyes  at  him,  sing  to  him,  Barbara ! 
I  think  you  might  please  his  royal  mood 
For  a  month,  and  then,  —  what  then  if  he  should 

Fling  you  aside,  Queen  Barbara  ? 

You  might  die  out  there  on  the  moor, 

(Where  Eouel  died  for  you,  Barbara !) 
For  the  world,  you  know,  sets  little  store 
On  beauty,  and  charity  closes  the  door 
On  fallen  divinity,  Barbara. 

But  if  his  Majesty  grew  so  cold,  — 

In  the  dead  of  night,  my  Barbara, 
I  'd  stalk  to  his  chamber,  Hate  is  bold, 
And  strangle  him  there  in  his  ermine  and  gold, 
And  lay  him  beside  you,  Barbara ! 


BARBARA. 

H. 

MADAM,  as  you  pass  us  by, 
Dreaming  of  your  loves  and  wine, 
Do  not  brush  your  rich  brocade 
Against  this  little  maid  of  mine, 
Madam,  as  you  pass  us  by. 

When  in  youth  my  blood  was  warm, 
"Wine  was  royal,  life  complete ; 
So  I  drained  the  flasks  of  wine, 
So  I  sat  at  Circe's  feet, 
When  in  youth  my  blood  was  warm. 

Time  has  taught  me  pleasant  truths  : 
Lilies  grow  where  thistles  grew : 
Ah,  you  loved  me  not.     This  maid 
Loves  me.     There 's  an  end  of  you ! 
Time  has  taught  me  pleasant  truths. 

I  will  speak  no  bitter  words  : 
Too  much  passion  made  me  blind. 
You  were  subtle.     Let  it  go, 
For  the  sake  of  woman-kind ! 
I  will  speak  no  bitter  words. 


BARBARA. 

But,  Madam,  as  you  pass  us  by, 
Dreaming  of  your  loves  and  wine, 
Do  not  brush  your  rich  brocade 
Against  this  little  maid  of  mine, 
Madam,  as  you  pass  us  by. 


THE  SE,T  OF  TURQUOISE. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 

COUNT  OF  LAB  A     .     .     .  A  poor  nobleman. 

BEATRICE His  wife. 

MIRIAM  } 

i- Her  dressing-maids. 

JACINTA  > 

A  PAGE for  the  occasion. 


THE    SET   OF   TURQUOISE. 

A   DRAMATIC   SKETCH. 


SCENE   I.  —  COUNT  of  LARA'S  villa.    A 

overlooking  the  garden.      Moonrise.      LARA  and 
BEATRICE. 

LARA. 

jjlHE  third  moon  of  our  marriage,  Bea- 
trice ! 

'T  is  like  a  face  against  the  twilight  sky, 
Making  the  air  around  it  beautiful, 
Like  that  Madonna  we  at  Florence  saw, 
Fra  Lippo  Lippi's,  the  wild  Carmelite. 

BEATRICE. 

Now,  as  't  is  hidden  hy  those  drifts  of  cloud, 
With  one  thin  edge  just  glimmering  through  the 
dark, 


206          THE  SET  OF  TURQUOISE. 

'T  is  like  some  strange,  rich  jewel  of  the  east, 
In  the  cleft  side  of  a  mountain. 


Not  unlike ! 

BEATRICE. 

And  that  reminds  me,  —  speaking  of  jewels,  —  love, 
There  is  a  set  of  turquoise  at  Malan's, 
Ear-drops  and  bracelets  and  a  necklace,  —  ah ! 
If  they  were  mine  ! 

LARA.     ' 

And  so  they  should  be,  dear, 
Were  I  Aladdin,  and  had  slaves  o'  the  lamp 
To  fetch  me  ingots.     Why,  then,  Beatrice, 
All  Persia's  turquoise-quarries  should  be  yours, 
Although  your  hand  is  heavy  now  with  gems 
That  tear  my  lips  when  I  would  kiss  its  whiteness. 
O,  so  you  pout !     Well,  well. 

BEATRICE. 

You  love  me  not. 


A  coquette's  song. 


THE  SET  OF  TURQUOISE.         207 

BEATRICE. 

I  sing  it. 

LAS  A. 

A  poor  song. 

BEATRICE. 

You  love  me  not,  or  love  me  over-much, 
Which  makes  you  jealous  of  the  gems  I  wear. 
You  do  not  deck  me  as  becomes  our  state, 
For  fear  my  grandeur  should  besiege  the  eyes 
Of  Monte,  Clari,  Marcus,  and  the  rest,  — 
A  precious  set !     You  're  jealous,  Sir ! 

LARA. 

Not  I. 
I  love  you. 

BEATRICE. 

Why,  that  is  as  easy  said 

As  any  three  short  words ;  takes  no  more  breath 
To  say,  '  I  hate  you.'     What,  Sir,  have  I  lived 
Three  times  four  weeks  your  wedded,  loyal  wife, 
And  do  not  know  your  follies  ?     I  will  wager 
The  rarest  kisses  I  know  how  to  give 
Against  the  turquoise,  that  within  a  month 


ao8          THE  SET  OF   TURQUOISE. 

You  '11  grow  so  jealous,  —  and  without  a  cause, 
Or  with  a  reason  thin  as  window-glass,  — 
That  you  will  ache  to  kill  me  ? 


Will  you  so  * 

And  I,  —  let  us  clasp  hands  and  kiss  on  it. 

BEATRICE. 

Clasp  hands,  Sir  Trustful;   but  not  kiss,  —  nay, 

nay! 
I  will  not  pay  my  forfeit  till  I  lose. 

LARA. 
And  I  '11  not  lose  the  forfeit. 

BEATRICE. 

We  shall  see. 

BEATRICE  enters  the  house  singing : 
There  was  an  old  earl  and  he  wed  a  young  wife, 

Heigh  ho,  the  bonny. 
And  he  was  as  jealous  as  Death  is  of  Life, 

Heigh  ho,  the  nonny  ! 

Kings  saw  her,  and  sighed; 

And  wan  lovers  died, 


THE  SET  OF   TORQUOISE.          709 

But  no  one  could  win  the  bright  honey 
Tliat  lay  on  the  lips  of  the  bonny 

Young  bride, 
Until  Cupid,  the  rover,  a-hearting  would  go, 

TJien,  —  heigh  ho  !  [Exit.] 

LARA. 

She  has  as  many  fancies  as  the  wind 

Which  now,  like  slumber,  lies  'mong  spicy  isles, 

Then  suddenly  blows  white  furrows  in  the  sea ! 

Lovely  and  dangerous  is  my  leopardess. 

To-day,  low-lying  at  my  feet ;  to-morrow, 

With    great    eyas    flashing,    threatening    doleful 

death,  — 

With  strokes  like  velvet.     She  's  no  common  clay, 
But  fire  and  dew  and  marble.     I  '11  not  throw 
So  rare  a  wonder  in  the  lap  6'  the  world. 
Jealous  ?     I  am  not  jealous,  —  though  they  say 
Some  sorts  of  love  breed  jealousy.     And  yet, 
I  would  I  had  not  wagered  ;  it  implies 
Doubt.     If  I  doubted?     Pshaw!    I '11  walk  awhile 
And  let  the  cool  air  fan  me.     [Paces  the  balcony.] 
'T  was  not  wise. 
'T  is  only  Folly  with  its  cap  and  bells 


2io          THE  SET  OF  TURQUOISE. 

Can  jest  with  sad  things.     She  seemed  earnest,  too. 
"What  if,  to  pique  me,  she  should  overstep 
The  pale  of  modesty,  and  give  bold  eyes 
(I  could  not  bear  that,  nay,  not  even  that !) 
To  Marc  or  Claudian"?     Why,  such  things  have 

been 

And  no  sin  dreamed  of.     I  will  watch  her  close. 
There,  now,  I  wrong  her.     She  is  wild  enough, 
Playing  the  empress  in  her  honeymoons  : 
But  untamed  falcons  will  not  wear  the  hood 
Nor  sit  on  the  wrist,  at  bidding.     Yet  if  she, 
To  win  the  turquoise  of  me,  if  she  should  — 
O  cursed  jewels  !  would  that  they  were  hung 
About  the  glistening  neck  of  some  mermaiden 
A  thousand  fathoms  underneath  the  sea ! 


SCENE  II.  —  A  garden :  the  villa  seen  in  the  back- 
ground. LARA  stretched  on  the  grass  with  a  copy 
of  Boccaccio's  « Decameron '  in  his  hand.  Sunset. 

LARA.          [Closing  the  book.] 
A  book  for  sunset,  —  if  for  any  time. 
Most  spicy  tongues  and  riant  wit  had  they, 


THE  SET  OF  TURQUOISE.         an 

The  merry  Ladies  of  Boccaccio ! 

What  tales  they  told  of  love-in-idleness, 

(Love  old  as  earth,  and  yet  forever  new,) 

Of  monks  who  worshipped  Venus  —  not  in  vain  ; 

Of  unsuspecting  husbands,  and  gay  dames 

Who  held  their  vows  but  lightly  —  by  my  faith, 

Too  much  of  the  latter.     'T  is  a  sweet,  bad  book. 

I  would  not  have  my  sister  or  my  wife 

Caught  by  ite  cunning.     In  its  mellow  words 

Sin  is  so  draped  with  beauty,  speaks  so  fair, 

That  naught  seems  wrong  but  Virtue !     Yet,  for 

all, 

It  is  a  sprightly  volume,  and  kills  care. 
I  need  such  sweet  physicians.     I  have  grown 
Sick  in  the  mind  —  at  swords'  points  with  myself. 
I  am  mine  own  worst  enemy. 
And  wherefore  ?  wherefore  ?     Beatrice  is  kind, 
Less  fanciful,  and  loves  me,  I  would  swear, 
Albeit  she  will  not  kiss  me  till  the  month 
Which  ends  our  foolish  wager  shall  have  passed. 
A  hundred  years,  and  not  a  single  kiss 
To  spice  the  time  with.     What  a  freakish  dame ! 

A.  Page  crosses  the  garden. 
That  page  again  !     'T  is  twice  within  the  week 


ai2          THE  SET  OF   TURQUOISE. 

The  supple-waistcd,  pretty-ankled  knave 

Has  crossed  my  garden  at  this  selfsame  hour, 

Trolling  a  canzonetta  with  an  air 

As  if  he  owned  the  villa.     Why,  the  fop  ! 

He  might  have  doffed  his  bonnet  as  he  passed. 

I  '11  teach  him  better  if  he  comes  again. 

What  does  he  at  the  villa  ?     O,  perchance 

He  comes  in  the  evening  when  his  master 's  out, 

To  lisp  soft  romance  in  the  ready  ear 

Of  Beatrice's  dressing-maid ;  but  then 

She  has  one  lover.     Now  I  think  she  's  two  : 

This  gaudy  popinjay  would  make  the  third, 

And  that 's  too  many  for  an  honest  girl ! 

If  he  's  not  Miriam's,  he 's  Jacinta's,  then  ? 

I  '11  ask  the  Countess  —  no,  I  '11  not  do  that ; 

She  'd  laugh  at  me,  and  vow  by  the  Madonna 

This  varlet  was  some  noble  in  disguise, 

Seeking  her  favor.     Then  I  'd  let  the  light 

Of  morning  through  his  doublet  —  I  would  —  yes, 

That  is,  I  would,  were  I  a  jealous  man  : 

But  then  I  'm  not.     So  he  may  come  and  go 

To  Miriam  —  or  the  devil !     I  '11  not  care. 

I  would  not  build  around  my  lemon-trees, 

(Though  every  lemon  were  an  emerald,) 


THE  SET  OF  TORQUOISE.          213 

A  lattice-fence,  for  fear  the  very  birds 

Should  sing,  You  're  jealous,  you  are  jealous,  Sir. 


SCENE  III.  —  A  wooded  road  near  the  villa.  The 
garden-gate  seen  on  the  left.  LARA  leaning  against 
a  tree.  Evening. 

LARA. 

Sorrow  itself  is  not  so  hard  to  bear 

As  the  thought  of  sorrow  coming.     Airy  ghosts, 

That  breed  no  mischief,  terrify  us  more 

Than  men  in  steel  with  bloody  purposes. 

Death  is  not  dreadful ;  't  is  the  dread  of  death  — 

We  die  whene'er  we  think  of  it. 

I  '11  not 

Be  cozened  longer.     When  the  page  comes  out 
I  '11  stop  him,  question  him,  and  know  the  truth. 
I  cannot  sit  in  the  garden  of  a  night 
But  he  glides  by  me  in  his  jaunty  dress, 
Like  a  fantastic  phantom !  —  never  looks 
To  the  right  nor  left,  but  passes  gayly  on, 
As  if  I  were  a  statue.     Soft,  he  comes, 
I  '11  make  him  speak,  or  kill  him ;  then,  indeed, 


214          THE  SET  OF   TURQUOISE. 

It  were  unreasonable  to  ask  it.     Sob  ! 

I  '11  speak  him  gently  at  the  first,  and  then  — 

The  Page  enters  by  a  gate  in  the  villa-garden,  and 

walks  carelessly  past  the  Count. 
Ho !  pretty  page,  who  owns  you  ? 

PAGE. 

No  one  now. 

Once  Signor  Juan,  but  I  am  his  no  more. 

LARA. 

What,  then,  you  stole  from  him  ? 

PAGE. 

0  no,  Sir,  no. 

He  had  so  many  intrigues  on  his  hands, 
There  was  no  sleep  for  me  nor  night  nor  day. 
Such  carrying  of  love-favors  and  pink  notes  ! 
He 's  gone  abroad  now,  to  break  other  hearts, 
And  so  I  left  him. 

LARA. 

A  frank  knave. 

PAGE. 

To-night 

1  've  done  his  latest  bidding  — 


THE  SET  OF  TURQUOISE.         215 

LULL 

As  you  should  — 

PAGE. 

A  duty  wed  with  pleasure  —  't  was  to  take 
A  message  to  a  countess  all  forlorn, 
In  yonder  villa. 

LARA. 

Why,  the  devil !  that 's  mine  ! 
A  message  to  a  countess  all  forlorn  1 
[Jo  the  Page.]     In  yonder  villa  ? 
t 

PAGE. 

Ay,  Sir.     You  can  see 

The  portico  among  the  mulberries, 

Just  to  the  left,  there. 


Ay,  I  see,  I  see. 

A  pretty  villa.     And  the  lady's  name  ? 


The  lady's  name,  Sir  ? 


ai6         THE  SET  OF  TURQUOISE. 

LABA. 

Ay,  the  lady's  name. 

PAGE. 
Why,  that  'a  a  secret  which  I  cannot  tell. 

LARA.     [Catching  him  by  the  throat.] 
No  ?  but  you  shall,  though,  or  I  '11  strangle  you  ! 
In  my  strong  hands  your  slender  neck  would  snap 
Like  a  fragile  pipe-stem. 

PAGE. 

You  are  choking  me ! 
O,  loose  your  grasp,  Sir ! 

LARA. 

Then  the  name !  the  name  ! 

PAGE. 
Countess  of  Lara. 

LARA. 

Not  her  dressing-maid  ? 

PAGE. 
No,  no,  I  said  the  mistress,  not  the  maid. 


TEE  SET   OF  TURQUOISE.          ^l1 

LARA. 

And  then  you  lied.     I  never  saw  two  eyes 
So  wide  and  frank,  but  they  'd  a  pliaut  tongue 
To  shape  a  lie  for  them.     Say  you  are  false. 
Tell  me  you  lie,  and  I  will  make  you  rich, 
I  '11  stuff  your  cap  with  ducats  twice  a  year. 

PAGE.  [Smiling.] 

Well,  then  —  "  lie. 

LARA. 

Ay,  now  you  lie,  indeed  ! 

I  see  it  in  the  cunning  of  your  eyes  ; 

Night  cannot  hide  the  Satan  leering  there. 

Only  a  little  lingering  fear  of  heaven 

Holds  me  from  dirking  you  between  the  ribs. 

[Hides  his  face  in  his  hands.] 

PAGE.  [^Isicfe.] 

Faith,  then,  I  would  I  were  well  out  of  this. 

LARA.  [Abstractedly.] 

Such  thin  divinity  !     So  foul,  so  fair. 

PAGE. 

What  would  you  have  1     I  will  say  nothing,  then. 


2.i 8  THE  SET   OF   TURQUOISE. 

LARA. 

Say  everything,  and  end  it.     Here  is  gold. 
You  brought  a  billet  to  the  Countess  —  well  ? 
What  said  the  billet  ? 

PAGEo 

Take  away  your  hand, 

And,  by  St.  Mary,  I  will  tell  you  all. 

There,  now,  I  breathe.     You  will  not  harm  me, 

Sir? 

Stand  six  yards  off,  or  I  will  not  a  word. 
It  seems  the  Countess  promised  Signer  Juan 
A  set  of  turquoise  — 

LARA.  [Starting.] 

Turquoise  ?     Ha  !  that 's  well. 

PAGE. 

Just  so  —  wherewith  my  master  was  to  pay 
Some  gaming  debts  ;  but  yester-night  the  cards 
Tumbled  a  heap  of  ducats  at  his  feet ; 
And  ere  he  sailed,  this  morning,  Signor  Juan 
Gave  me,  his  careful  Mercury,  a  note 
For  Countess  Lara,  which,  with  some  adieus, 
Craved   her   remembrance   morning,    noon,    and 
night ; 


THE  SET  OF  TURQUOISE.         219 

Her  prayers  while  gone,  her  smiles  when  he  re- 
turned ; 

Then  told  his  recent  fortune  with  the  cards, 
And  bade  her  keep  the  jewels.     That  is  all. 

LARA. 

All  ?     Is  that  all  ?     'T  has  only  cracked  my  heart ! 
A  heart,  I  know,  of  little,  little  worth,  — 
An  ill-cut  ruby,  scarred  and  scratched  before, 
But  now  quite  broken. •  I  have  no  heart,  then  ; 
Men  should  not  have,  when  they  are  wronged  like 

this. 
Out  of  my  sight,  thou  minion  of  bad  news ! 

0  sip  thy  wine  complacently  to-night, 
Lie  with  thy  mistress  in  a  pleasant  sleep, 

For  thou  hast  done  thy  master  (that 's  the  Devil !) 
This  day  a  goodly  service :  thou  hast  sown 
The  seeds  of  lightning  that  shall  scathe  and  kill ! 

[Exit.] 

PAGE.       [Looking  after  him.] 

1  did  not  think  't  would  work  on  him  like  that. 
How  pale  he  grew !     Alack !  I  fear  some  ill 
Will  come  of  this.     I  'II  to  the  Countess  now, 
And  warn  her  of  his  madness.     Faith,  he  foamed 


aao          THE  SET  OF  TURQUOISE. 

I'  the  mouth  like  Guido  whom  they  hung  last  week 
(God  rest  him !)  in  the  jail  at  Mantua, 
For  kiljing  poor  Battista.     Crime  for  crime. 

[Exit.] 


SCEXE  IV.  —  BEATRICE'S  chamber.  A  Venetian 
screen  on  the  right.  As  the  scene  opens,  JACINTA 
places  lamps  on  a  standish,  and  retires  to  the  back 
of  the  stage.  BEATRICE  'sits  on  a  fauteuil  in  the 
attitude  of  listening. 

BEATRICE. 

Hist !  that 's  his  step.     Jacinta,  place  the  lights 
Farther  away  from  me,  and  get  thee  gone. 

[Exit  JACINTA.] 

And  Miriam,  child,  keep  you  behind  the  screen, 
Breathing  no  louder  than  a  lily  does ; 
For  if  you  stir  or  laugh  't  will  ruin  all. 

MIRIAM.      [Behind  the  screen.] 
Laugh !     I  am  faint  with  terror. 

BEATRICE. 

Then  be  still. 

Move  not  for  worlds  until  I  touch  the  bell, 


THE  SET  OF   TURQUOISE.         221 

Then  do  the  thing  I  told  you.     Hush !  his  step 
Sounds  in  the  corridor,  and  I  'ra  asleep. 

LARA  enters  with  his  dress  in  disorder.  He  ap- 
proaches within  a  few  yards  of  BEATRICE,  pauses, 
and  looks  at  her. 

LARA. 

Asleep !  —  and  Guilt  can  slumber !     Guilt  can  lie 
Down-lidded  and  soft-breathed,  like  Innocence ! 
Hath  dreams  as  sweet  as  childhood's,  —  who  can 

tell?—  ' 

And  paradisal  prophecies  in  sleep, 
Its  foul  heart  keeping  measure,  as  it  were, 
To  the  silver  music  of  a  mandoline  ! 
Were  I  an  artist,  and  did  wish  to  paint 
A  devil  to  perfection,  I  'd  not  limn 
A  horned  monster,  with  a  leprous  skin, 
Red-hot  from  Pandemonium,  —  not  I. 
But  with  my  delicatest  tints,  I  'd  paint 
A  Woman  in  the  glamour  of  her  youth, 
Garmented  with  loveliness  and  mystery ! 
She  should  be  sleeping  in  a  room  like  this, 
With  Angelos  and  Titians  on  the  walls, 


222          THE  SET  OF  TURQUOISE. 

The  deathless  masters  staring  grandly  down, 

Draped  round  with  folds  of  damask ;  in  the  alcoves, 

Statues  of  Bacchus  and  Eurydice, 

And  Venus's  blind  love-child  :  a  globed  lamp 

Gilding  the  heavy  darkness,  while  the  odors 

Of  myriad  hyacinths  should  seem  to  break 

Upon  her  ivory  bosom  as  she  slept ; 

And  by  her  side,  (as  I  by  Beatrice,) 

Her  injured  lord  should  stand  and  look  at  her. 

[Pauses.] 

How  fair  she  is  !     Her  beauty  glides  between 
Me  and  my  purpose,  like  a  pleading  angel. 
Beauty,  —  alack  !  't  is  that  which  wrecks  us  all : 
'T  is  that  we  live  for,  die  for,  and  are  damned. 
A  pretty  ankle  and  a  laughing  lip,  — 
They  cost  us  Eden  when  the  world  was  new, 
They  cheat  us  out  of  heaven  every  day. 
To-night  they  win  another  Soul  for  you, 
Master  of  Darkness  !  .  .  .          [BEATRICE  sighs.] 
Her  dream  's  broke,  like  a  bubble,  in  a  sigh. 
She  '11  waken  soon,  and  that,  —  that  must  not  be  ! 
I  could  not  kill  her  if  she  looked  at  me. 
I  loved  her,  loved  her,  by  the  Saints,  I  did ! 


THE  SET  OF  TURQUOISE.         223 

BEATRICE.          [Springing  up.] 
So,  you  are  come,  —  your  poniard  in  your  hand  ? 
Your  lips  compressed  and  blanched,  and  your  hair 
Tumbled  wildly  all  about  your  eyes, 
Like  a  river-god's  ?     0  love,  you  frighten  me ! 
And  you  are  trembling.     Tell  me  what  this  means. 

LARA. 

O,  nothing,  nothing,  —  I  did  think  to  write 
A  note  to  Juan,  to  Signor  Juan,  my  friend, 
(Your  cousin  apd  my  honorable  friend  ;) 
But  finding  neither  ink  nor  paper  here, 
I  thought  to  scratch  it  with  my  dagger's  point 
Upon  your  bosom,  Madam  !     That  is  all. 

BEATRICE. 

You  've  lost  your  senses ! 

LARA. 

Madam,  no :  I  Ve  found  'em ! 

BEATRICE. 

Then  lose  them  quickly,  and  be  what  you  were. 


224          THE  SET  OF   TURQUOISE. 

LARA. 

I  was  a  fool,  a  dupe,  —  a  happy  dupe. 
You  should  have  kept  me  in  my  ignorance ; 
For  wisdom  makes  us  wretched,  king  and  clown. 
Countess  of  Lara,  you  are  false  to  me ! 

BEATRICE. 

Now,  by  the  Saints  — 

LARA. 

Now,  by  the  Saints,  you  are ! 

BEATRICE. 

Upon  my  honor  — 

LARA. 

On  your  honor  ?  fie ! 

Swear  by  the  ocean's  feathery  froth,  for  that 

Is  not  so  light  a  substance. 

BEATRICE. 

Hear  me,  love ! 

LARA. 

Lie  to  that  marble  lo  !     I  am  sick 
To  the  heart  with  lying. 


THE  SET  OF   TURQUOISE.         225 

BEATRICE. 

You  've  the  ear-ache,  Sir, 
Got  with  too  much  believing. 


Beatrice, 

I  came  to  kill  you. 

BEATRICE. 

Kiss  me,  Count,  you  mean. 

LARA.         [Approaching  her.] 
If  killing  you  be  kissing  you,  why  yes. 

BEATRICE. 

Ho !    come  not  near  me  with  such  threatening 

looks, 

Or  I  '11  call  Miriam  and  Jacinta,  Sir, 
And  rouse  the  villa :  't  were  a  pretty  play 
To  act  before  our  servants. 

LARA. 

Call  your  maids ! 

I  '11  kill  them,  too,  and  claim  from  Koyalty 
IS 


226          THE  SET   OF   TURQUOISE. 

Thanks,  and  another  chevron  for  my  shield, 
For  slaying  three  she-scorpions,  —  but  you  first ! 

BEATRICE. 

Stand  back  there,  if  you  love  me,  or  have  loved ! 

As  LARA  advances,  BEATRICE  retreats  to  the  table 
and  rings  a  small  hand-bell.  MIRIAM,  in  the  dress 
of  a  page,  enters  from  behind  the  screen,  and  steps 
between  them. 

MIRIAM. 

What  would  my  master,  Signor  Juan,  say  — 

LARA.  [Starting  back.] 

The  Page?  now,  curse  him!  —  What?  no!  Mi- 
riam? 

Hold !  't  was  at  twilight,  in  the  villa-garden, 
At  dusk,  too,  on  the  road  to  Mantua : 
But  here  the  light  falls  on  you,  man  or  maid ! 
Stop  now,  my  brain's  bewildered.     Stand  you 

there, 

And  let  me  touch  you  with  incredulous  hands ! 
Wait  till  I  come,  nor  vanish  like  a  ghost. 


THE  SET   OF   TURQUOISE.          227 

If  this  be  Juan's  page,  why,  where  is  Miriam  ? 
If  this  be  Miriam,  where 's  —  by  all  the  Saints, 
I  have  been  tricked ! 

MIRIAM.  [Laughing.] 

By  two  Saints,  with  your  leave ! 

LARA. 

The  happiest  fool  in  Italy,  for  my  age ! 
And  all  the  damning  tales  you  fed  me  with, 
You  Sprite  of  Twilight,  Imp  of  the  old  Moon !  — 

MIRIAM.  [Bowing.] 

Were  arrant  lies  as  ever  woman  told ; 
And  though  not  mine,  I  claim  the  price  for  them,  — 
This  cap  stuffed  full  of  ducats  twice  a  year. 

LARA. 

A  trap !  a  trap  that  only  caught  a  fool 
So  thin  a  plot,  I  might  have  seen  through  it. 
I  've  lost  my  reason ! 

MIRIAM. 

And  your  ducats  i 


228          THE  SET   OF   TURQUOISE. 

BEATRICE. 

And 

A  certain  set  of  turquoise  at  Malan's ! 

LARA.     [Catching  BEATRICE  in  his  anns.]- 
I  care  not,  child,  so  that  I  have  not  lost 
The  love  I  held  so  jealously.     And  you,  — 
You  do  forgive  me  ?     Say  it  with  your  eyes. 
Eight  kindly  said !     Now,  mark  me,  Beatrice : 
If  ever  man  or  woman,  gnome  or  fairy, 
Breathes   aught    against    your   worthiness,  —  al- 
though 

The  very  angels  from  the  clouds  drop  down 
To  sign  the  charge  of  perfidy,  —  I  swear, 
Upon  my  honor  — 

BEATRICE. 

Nay,  be  careful  there ! 

Swear  by  the  ocean's  feathery  froth  — 

LARA. 

I  swear, 

By  heaven  and  all  the  Seraphim  — 


THE  SET   OF   TURQUOISE.          229 

BEATRICE.     [Placing  her  hand  on  his  mouth.] 
I  pray  you ! 

LARA. 

I  swear,  —  if  ever  I  catch  Miriam 

In  pointed  doublet  and  silk  hose  again, 

I'll  — 

BEATRICE. 

What? 

LARA. 

Make  love  to  her,  by  all  that 's  true ! 


O  wisdom,  wisdom !  just  two  hours  too  late. 
You  should  have  thought  of  that  before,  my  love. 

LARA. 

It  *s  not  too  late ! 

BEATRICE.  [To  MlRIAM.] 

To  bed,  you  dangerous  page ! 
The  Count  shall  pay  the  ducats. 

[Exit  MIRIAM.] 


230          THE  SET  OF  TURQUOISE. 

LARA. 

And  to-morrow 

I  '11  clasp  a  manacle  of  blue  and  gold 

On  those  white  wrists.     Now,  Beatrice,  come  here, 

And  let  me  kiss  both  eyes  for  you. 


SONNETS. 


SONNETS. 


EUTERPE. 

OW  if  Euterpe  held  me  not  in  scorn, 
I  'd  shape  a  lyric,  perfect,  fair,  and  round 
As 'that  thin  baud  of  gold  wherewith  I 

bound 

Your  slender  finger  our  betrothal  morn. 
Not  of  Desire  alone  is  music  born, 

Not  till  the  Muse  wills  is  our  passion  crowned  : 
Unsought  she  comes,  if  sought  but  seldom  found. 
Hence  is  it  Poets  often  are  forlorn, 
Taciturn,  shy,  self-immolated,  pale, 

Taking  no  healthy  pleasure  in  their  kind,  — 
Wrapt  in  their  dream  as  in  a  coat-of-mail. 

Hence  is  it  I,  the  least,  a  very  hind, 
Have  stolen  away  into  this  leafy  vale 

Drawn  by  the  flutings  of  the  silvery  wind. 


234 


SONN£TS. 


AT  BAY  EIDGE,   L.I. 


LEASANT  it  is  to  lie  amid  the  grass 
Under  these  shady  locusts,  half  the  day, 
Watching  the  ships  reflected  on  the  Bay, 
Topmast  and  shroud,  as  in  a  wizard's  glass  : 
To  see  the  happy-hearted  martins  pass, 

Brushing  the  dewdrops  from  the  lilac  spray : 
Or  else  to  hang  enamored  o'er  some  lay 
Of  fairy  regions  :  or  to  muse,  alas  ! 
On  Dante,  exiled,  journeying  outworn  ; 
On  patient  Milton's  sorrowfulest  eyes 
Shut  from  the  splendors  of  the  Night  and  Morn  : 

To  think  that  now,  beneath  the  Italian  skies, 
In  such  clear  air  as  this,  by  Tiber's  wave, 
Daisies  are  trembling  over  Iveats's  grave. 


SONNETS.  235 


PURSUIT  AND  POSSESSION. 

jl  HEN  I  behold  what  pleasure  is  Pursuit, 
What  life,  what  glorious  eagerness  it  is ; 
Then  mark  how  full  Possession  falls 
from  this, 

How  fairer  seems  the  blossom,  than  the  fruit,  — 
I  am  perplext,  and  often  stricken 'mute 

Wondering  which  attained  the  higher  bliss, 
The  winged  insect,  or  the  chrysalis 
It  thrust  aside  with  unreluctant  foot. 
Spirit  of  verse  which  still  eludes  my  art, 

You  shapes  of  loveliness  that  still  do  haunt  me, 
O  never,  never  rest  upon  my  heart. 

If  when  I  have  thee  I  shall  little  want  thee ! 
Still  flit  away  in  moonlight,  rain/*  and  dew, 
Wills  o'  the  wisp,  that  I  may  still  pursue ! 


SONNETS. 


THE    AMULET. 

jjjHOUGH  thou  wert  cunninger  than  Vi- 
vien,— 
Faithful  as  Enid, — fair  as  Guinevere,  — 

Pure  as  Elaine,  —  I  should  not  hold  thee  dear. 
Count  me  not  cold,  decorous,  unlike  men ! 
Indeed  the  time  was,  and  not  long  since,  when  — 

But 't  is  not  now.     An  amulet  I  've  here 

Saves  me.    A  ring.    Observe  :  within  this  sphere 
Of  chiselled  gold  a  jewel  is  set.     What  then  ? 

Why,  this,  —  the  stone  and  setting  cannot  part, 
Unless  one 's  broken.  '  See  with  what  a  grace 

The  diamond  dewdrop  sinks  into  the  white 

Tulip-shaped  calyx,  and  o'erfloods  it  quite  ! 
There  is  a  Lady  set  so  in  my  heart 

There  Js  not  for  any  other  any  place. 


SONNETS. 


EGYPT. 


ANTASTIC  Sleep  is  busy  with  my  eyes : 
I  seem  in  some  waste  solitude  to  stand 
Once  ruled  of  Cheops  :  upon  either  hand 
A  dark  illimitable  desert  lies, 
Sultry  and  still,  —  a  realm  of  mysteries ; 

A  wide-browed  Sphinx,  half  buried  in  the  sand, 
"With  orbJess  sockets  stares  across  the  land, 
The  woefulest  thing  beneath  these  brooding  skies 
Where  all  is  woeful,  weird-lit  vacancy. 

'T  is  neither  midnight,  twilight,  nor  moonrise. 
Lo  !  while  I  gaze,  beyond  the  vast  sand-sea 

The  nebulous  clouds  are  downward  slowly  drawn, 
And  one  bleared  star,  faint-glimmering  like  a  bee, 
Is  shut  i'  the  rosy  outstretched  hand  of  Dawn. 


238 


SONNETS. 


MIRACLES. 


ICK  of  myself  and  all  that  keeps  the  light 
Of  the  blue  skies  away  from  me  and 
mine, 

I  climb  this  ledge,  and  by  this  wind-swept  pine 
Lingering,  watch  the  coming  of  the  night. 
'T  is  ever  a  new  wonder  to  my  sight. 

Men  look  to  God  for  some  mysterious  sign, 

For  other  stars  than  those  that  nightly  shine, 
For  some  unnatural  symbol  of  His  might. 
Wouldst  see  a  miracle  as  grand  as  those 

The  prophets  wrought  of  old  in  Palestine  ? 
Come  watch  with  me  the  shaft  of  fire  that  glows 

In  yonder  West :  the  fair  frail  palaces, 
The  fading  alps  and  archipelagoes, 

And  great  cloud-continents  of  sunset-seas. 


SONN£TS.  239 


FREDERICKS  BURG. 

HE  increasing  moonlight  drifts  across 

my  bed, 
And  on  the  churchyard  by  the-road,  I 

know 

It  falls  as  white  and  noiselessly  as  snow. 
'T  was  such  a  night  two  weary  summers  fled ; 
The  stars,  as^now,  were  waning  overhead. 
Listen  !     Again  the  shrill-lipped  bugles  blow 
Where  the  swift  currents  of  the  river  flow 
Past  Fredericksburg,  —  far  off  the  heavens  are  red 
"With  sudden  conflagration  :  on  yon  height, 

Linstock  in  hand,  the  gunners  hold  their  breath : 
A  signal-rocket  pierces  the  dense  night, 

Flings  its  spent  stars  upon  the  town  beneath : 
Hark !  —  the  artillery  massing  on  the  right, 

Hark!  —  the  black  squadrons  wheeling   down 
to  Death! 


240 


ACCOMPLICES. 

ji  HE  soft  new  grass  is  creeping  o'er  the 

graves 

By  the  Potomac ;  and  the  crisp  ground- 
flower 

Lifts  its  blue  cup  to  catch  the  passing  shower ; 
The  pine-cone  ripens,  and  the  long  moss  waves 
Its  tangled  gonfalons  above  our  braves. 

Hark,  what  a  burst  of  music  from  yon  bower !  — 
The  Southern  nightingale  that,  hour  by  hour, 
In  its  melodious  summer  madness  raves. 
Ah,  with  what  delicate  touches  of  her  hand, 

With  what  sweet  voices,  Nature  seeks  to  screen 
The  awful  Crime  of  this  distracted  land,  — 
Sets  her  birds  singing,  while  she  spreads  her 

green 

Mantle  of  velvet  where  the  Murdered  lie, 
As  if  to  hide  the  horror  from  God's  eye.  L£ 


Cambridge  :  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow, 


J  13 JUT   OUI 


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